Hunter
by Adagio To A Wolf
Summary: My first Our-world Beka fic. Beka's training to be Chicago PD and her skills are very different from the ones in Terrier, though some familiar characters show up. She struggles when she becomes embroiled in a Mob case. Think Terrier CSI. B&R. Rated T .
1. Chapter 1: August 30, 2008

"HUNTER"

"HUNTER"

Online Time: 2:08am

Location: Campus, Chicago.

August 30, 2008

Hey everyone and welcome to my journal. Sortof. If there is anyone who is able to read this, let me first commend you on getting past the guards, blocks, and security on my computer. However, I'd also like to point out the supreme idiocy of reading a journal on a primo piece of machinery like this, but hey that's just me.

I've never had a journal before. I didn't do the Diary's thing like my sisters did. But I guess a journal, even a digital one, is a great way to keep my mind organized, and since I practically live in cyber-ville, it's easier to write on here, and my spelling is better for sure. Most journals begin with an introduction, so here goes.

My name is Rebakah Cooper. Known to everyone as Beka, except perhaps my social worker, who calls me Miss Rebakah Cooper, which is rather annoying. As for my name, I don't know what possessed my mother to name me Rebakah, instead of Rebecca, but I got stuck with the name, and Beka works for me. I've already mentioned my sisters: Diona and Lorine. I also have two brothers: Wilhem (Will) and Niliro (Nilo). Again, props to my mother on the crazy names. Well. I shouldn't talk like that, she did her best for a single parent. But when she died, my brothers, sisters, and I got tossed into "The System."

Foster-care. Not cool. Really not cool. Anyway, since no one in their right mind wants to foster five children, we got split up, though we met up every week, as per our social workers orders. My brothers stayed together, my sisters stayed together, I seemed to be the hard one to place, but I got to go with this one little librarian lady, who was otherwise unmarried, and probably the only woman in the world brave enough to go into a staring contest with me. I don't live with her no-more, which is, I guess, as good a place as any to start this history of mine.

Anyway, Librarian. She took me to work with her every day, especially during the summer. Libraries are interesting places, and you meet some interesting people there. I met this one guy, Ersken, there. His mom was probably crazier than mine, cuz she wasn't in the pangs of labor when she named him and she still named him Ersken. Yeesh. Right, so, this guy, Ersken, he showed me how to use the Library computers, which was pretty cool. Surf the internet, write and email, set up my own email account, fun jazz like that.

Well, one day, I was surfing the Web, and I got hit by a spam-tornado. Pop-ups everywhere as the computer started making these distressed awful noises. Before I knew what happened, the machine was smoking and whirring, and supposedly the entire inner workings had either gone "poof" or completely melted. Either way, the Library was mad at me (inevitably, its my fault, and not the evil person who created the pop-up-ado). Anyway, my Librarian foster mom told me I could pay off the computer by "working" for a while. They needed someone to put books back on the shelf. I'll tell you, no one knows Dewey Decimal System better than I do.

While I worked at the Library (which I now realize was "technically" illegal, cuz I was a minor-but whatever, I needed to pay for the computer). I put a lot of books away. When I wasn't putting books away I was digging through the isles, finding stuff to read. I guess I can almost thank that spam-spreader. I found my secret love at the library.

Computer code. Binary, computer programming and defragging, and hacking.

What, did you think I'd say some guys name?

Well, those books were so interesting to me, because I wanted to know why the whole mess with the computer happened in the first place. And if you're the kind of person who is reading this a second time, just to make sure you heard me correctly, yes, I fell in love with computers. My specialty? (Promise not to tell the Librarian?) Hacking. Yes, I said hacking. Now there aren't books in the library about how to hack, but there were some on how to prevent it (albeit they were a bit outdated) and how hacking was evil.

Still, after I'd worked off the computer I'd broken, which actually wasn't that long, since I worked all day during the summer, I tried my hand at the stuff I'd picked up from the books. After a few rocky starts, where I almost thought the computer would go ga-ga, I eventually got the hang of everything. Mostly, I defragged library computers, cuz seriously, what was I gonna hack there? I fixed their anti-virus program as well, so no more spam-ados.

Well, I guess the real story starts sometime around the end of that summer. I'd noticed that this guy walked into the library every Wednesday, sat down at a computer, and after sweating profusely all over the keys, he'd freeze the computer, make it go haywire, and then just unplug the darn thing (which isn't always the best way to fix the dratted things). Anyway, by the end of the summer, I was onto Mr. Sweaty-Palmed Poltergeist. I figured the only reason he went to all the trouble to fritz the computer would be to hide something or destroy data. Time to find out what.

Anyway, when he walked in, I checked out his library card number, which is nothing really, but since I'm good at the whole programming thing, I set the expiration date for a month _back_. So, he was using an expired card. I then proceeded to go up to the loser, who'd already sat down at a computer, and told him his card was expired, and that he had to go to the front desk to fix it. That way, he didn't have a chance to fritz the computers memory. Hah! Take that.

Anyway, after about a millisecond, I had pulled up all the windows he'd had open. _Woah, _I thought, reading his mail, _This guy is seriously bad stuff. _I printed out the big problem page, wrote down the guys email, and his very uncreative password (Stud#1, really, come on). Anyway, I closed the windows and told the Librarian that I was going to go see Ersken. She liked Ersken, cuz he always brought his books back the day they were due, and he never wrote in them, and the pages were never dog-eared or sloppy. She let me go, and I made a bee-line for his house.

"Ersken!" I said, knocking on his door, practically banging on it. He opened and I showed him the email I'd printed out. Ersken's eyes bugged out.

"Beka, we gotta take this to the cops," he said, frowning. "But the police stations a whole long way away from here."

"We could take the bus." I said, recalling that the bus-map in the library showed that the bus went right past the Downtown Police Station.

"The Bus? By ourselves? No way, Beka. You have to go on the bus with an adult." He wouldn't change his mind neither. So I left, taking my email with me. As I was waiting to cross the street, the bus pulled up. After letting all the people go in front of me, I got on the bus and asked the driver if he was going towards the Police station. He said he was, and I gave him my dollar. (It was supposed to be for a can of pop from the vending machine, but I sacrificed it anyway). When we drove past the police station, I got off and went inside.

The lady at the main desk had awful horn-rimmed glasses and her teeth and nails were all yellow. I saw the cigarettes in her pack. _Moron_ I thought, _doesn't she know those will kill her someday?_ The Librarian hated smokers. Anyway, when I told her I needed to speak with a police officer she told me to beat it, unless I was reporting a murder. Which, let me just say, I wasn't. She was absolutely no help. So I just went into The Pit.

The Pit, as they say, is the place where all those cops have their piddly little desks, overflowing with paperwork. I picked a cop at random, poking him on the arm. His name was Rollo. When I showed him the email, he took one look at it and grunted, "You want Narco, I can't help you with this." And proceeded to fill out more paperwork.

Well, I checked all their dratted desks that day, and none of them were named 'Narco,' or anything even close to 'Narco' and I was glum. But as I was sitting near the water cooler, wondering what I should do next, I saw two cops leave an office with a door. The door said "Captain Gershom Haryse" on it. Bingo. If anyone knew who 'Narco' was, it would be the floor Captain, right?

Now, I know your probably thinking I was a bit of an idiot at the time, but bear with me.

So I knocked on the Captain's door, and he barked for me to come in. I walked in, closing the door behind me. He looked up from his desk, which had a bajillion files on it, and he did a double take. "Can I help you, little girl?" He asked. First I gotta say, even though he was really stressed out, the captain was a real-looker. Salt and Pepper hair (which he still has), solemn-but-not-sad eyes, and he was tall and regal-looking. Almost lordly, or knightly, so you can't help but call him 'sir.'

Anyway, I told him what I found, who I was looking for, and I showed him the email. He hesitated a bit before taking it, sizing me up. After he checked something on his computer, he told me to sit down and start from the beginning, about how I figured Mr. Sweaty-Palms was trouble. So I told it to him again, and his eyes became more and more intense.

"Which is why I'm in here. That Rollo-cop out there said that I should look for Narco, and I want to know which officer in that messy room outside is Narco?" I told him, trying hard to be polite, even though I figured this Captain would probably get that patronizing look in his face and tell me I should go play with my dolls or something. But he didn't, he went to his door, opened it, and shouted into the Pit.

"Jewell!" he barked so that I cringed, "Get your rear in here, bring your crew, and Ahuda's. And bring one of those fancy new lap-computers."

"Yessir!" someone else responded immediately, and I hear scrambling in the other room. Captain Haryse came back into his office and steered me to his desk, telling me to sit in his chair (which was really cool—still is). He filed some paperwork away, clearing the desk a bit, as three men and a woman walked into the Captains office, a little taken aback to see me in his chair.

"Captain Haryse, you wanted to see us, sir?" said the first man who walked in, he had the coolest lap-top in his hand that I couldn't help but drool over it. Like a puppy over a liver treat or something.

"Jewell, put that computer on my desk, would you," said the captain, still filing away folders and folders of paperwork. I looked at Jewell, he was a big guy, and sortof scary. He still is: he can crack a man in investigation faster than anyone. They call him the Pit-Bull. Because he'll interrogate you like no-ones business. I didn't know that at the time, so I gave him a very severe look. Behind him was a no-nonsense black-woman who kept her hair cut short. She looked tough, her name tag read "Ahuda." The other two men couldn't have been more opposite: Yoav was tall and big and burly, and while Potterkin was small and wiry.

The captain handed Jewell the email I'd printed out and as he read out loud, his eyes bugged out. "Sir, is this lead legit?" He said, practically gasping for air.

The captain looked at me, "Could you please bring up this mans entire email?" He glanced at the laptop, and I practically leaped at the chance of using it. "Don't be scared, hun. These old dogs won't hurt you."

"For the record," I said coolly, "My name is Cooper. Beka Cooper."

"Kid's got the Bond line down," laughed Potterkin, but no one else chuckled.

"Also," I glared at the captain, "I could have done the whole thing on this old honker which is on your desk, but I'm not gonna give up the chance to use this sweet a piece of machinery." I start up the laptop and get to work. That made the captain chuckle.

The four cops and the captain hovered for a moment, then came to stand behind me and watch me crack Mr. Sweaty-Hands' email account all over again. Easy. They had me dig around the email box, using specific dates and weekends. I just pulled up the mail from all the Wednesdays he was in the library. Bingo. Just what they needed.

"Wouldn't it be great if we got this load before it hit the street?" Said Yoav into Jewells ear.

"No way of knowing where the pick up is. It just says, 'The usual spot.' Like we're going to deign where that is?" Jewell growled, like he was a dog, and his leash was too short.

"We could have him followed," suggested Potterkin.

"Yeah right," barked Ahuda, "He'll notice he's being tailed. All these freaks are paranoid, you know that." She scowled. "Isn't there a way of finding out where he's been?" They muttered to each other. Seeing as they weren't looking too well at these emails, I spoke up.

"What about if you track where he went at the drop off time, by using his cell number as a locator and triangulating his location by cell phone tower?" I said it, cuz I'd read about police doing something similar in one of the Librarians crime-thriller novels. They just stared at me.

"We don't have his cell phone number, hun" Yoav said to me, in that patronizing tone. I glared at him.

"You don't have his number, _now._ But if you give me a minute, I could." I cracked my fingers putting them on the keys of the lap-top. Then looked up at the captain for the 'okay.'

"Don't we need a warrant?" asked Potterkin. Ahuda shushed him.

"WE do. She doesn't. Do it, kid." Ahuda said, practically licking her lips at the idea of getting Mr. Sweaty Hands and all his awful friends. When I got to work, they realized I wasn't just some half-bit of a kid who knew too much about computers. I was the real deal. With just the information from his email I managed to track down a credit card statement he'd paid online. From Credit Card, to Bank, to Bills he paid, including his phone bill. From the Phone Bill I got the company name and, you guessed it, his cell phone number.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but this kid is hacking, right?" asked Yoav quietly. No one corrected him. "Holy crap, this kid is hacking?! Is no one worried that this is illegal?"

He got slapped in the back of the head by Ahuda. "No judge is going to care about an 8 year old hacker when you and the rest of Narco bust this dirtbag. Possession with intent to distribute is a felony, but you're getting the whole gang, plus five hundred pounds of dirty coke, before it hits our city's streets. Shut up, and let the kid to the triangle-thingy."

"I'm almost 11," I told Ahuda, then quickly turned by gaze back to the computer when she glared at me. She and Yoav were arguing about legalities of busting a drug-dealer on data gathered illegally.

That's right. Mr. Sweaty Palms was a drug dealer. A nasty one. And yes, I knew what coke was. When you're in the system, you learn street names for shit like drugs real fast. Ice, grass, meth, dust, coke, crack, everything. It's actually depressing, in retrospect, but we know and we learn fast when street names change. I also figured out what Narco was. The Narcotics Unit. As in, dealing with illegal narcotics or the illegal sale of narcotics, or both.

While they argued the legalities, the Captain gave me a wink, and I triangulated what cell-phone towers the guys phone was near during the drop off time. I narrowed it down to a four block area, pulled up a map, and pointed to the screen. "There."

They all looked at the screen, to see where I pointed. They grumbled and growled. "If a kid can do it, our people can do it too, with a warrant." Yoav argued, stickling for the rules.

"Give it up Yoav, the kid is too good." Jewell was practically grinning.

"Don't you need, like probable cause for a warrant?" I asked. Yoav glared at me, and I glared right back at him. "I'm just saying, because this way you can say you got an anonymous tip about the drop-off. No muss no fuss. No waiting 24 hours for a warrant, when the drop-off is tonight, just before the weekend."

Ahuda, Jewell, and the Captain all grinned in a way that showed off their teeth, almost like they were licking their chops. The captain spoke first.

"Bring me his head on a plate. I want all of them. Don't let a single one get away." I clicked on the screen, and emailed two lists to the captains computer. Opened his computer, and then hit print. I then proceeded to delete all evidence that I'd been on either computer. The captain picked up the printouts: email addresses, and phone numbers, of contacts. The whole ring would be in there, all they had to do was play match-up.

As the cops left, I closed the computer. I tried to leave with a quick "goodbye!" but the captain grabbed me by the arm.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"The Library, over on Kedzie," I told him, tugging my arm out of his fingers.

"What's there?"

"My Foster mother works there," I told him, and turned toward the door. "I have to go back. Thanks for listening to me." I walked out of his office, but I heard him muttering as I left, already calling people up on his phone.


	2. Chapter 2: August 31, 2008

Online Time: 12:30 Noon, Lunchtime.

Location: The Library, third floor, between Monet and Mozart

August 31, 2008

Okay. So, I probably shouldn't have been up until 2 in the morning yesterday. I may not have room-mates, but I do have to get to classes and stuff.

Right, so where did I leave off? Right, Captain Haryse was calling people on his phone.

Well, I'm not the braggy type, though I really wish I could tell people around me that I put away a Drug Dealer with my hacking skills. I tried telling the Librarian I was at the police station putting away a drug dealer when she asked where I was, and why I hadn't eaten. Most people just don't believe a kid has those skills. They still don't. Anyway, she grounded me. No vending machine candy for a week.

We were always the last to leave the library, and as we rode the train home, I looked out on the street. The El (the Elevated Tracks, the subway-tramway train system in Chicago) was just over the streets, and we passed a graveyard, a lot of buildings, and I saw the Police Building in the distance. There was an entire cavalcade of cars leaving the building. The Drug Bust, I remember wanting to point them out to the Librarian, but I figured, I wouldn't fight it.

When we got back to the Librarian's apartment, we went inside and she turned on the evening news, which we watched and listened to while I made salad and she made chicken and pasta. Just as she was about to send me off to get ready for bed, a report came up on the news that made me want to whoop with joy.

"_Police raided a warehouse on Chicago's South-side today. According to preliminary reports, the warehouse was being raided on suspicion of being a storehouse and transaction of illicit narcotics, rumored to be Cocaine. Our sources tell us that the suspects activities were noticed by a ten year old girl, who is anonymous, and that it was because of her tip, that the Chicago Police have managed to complete the largest drug bust in the past decade. Over 500 pounds of Cocaine were reportedly found in the warehouse. The entire South-side is being searched for the remaining drug-dealers. _

_Well, I have to say, that was one brave little girl. Whoever she is, Chicago thanks you. Bill, why don't you take us to the street, and tell us what's happening on scene, and what the building crowds are thinking?" _The Reporter switched to a picture of the man named Potterkin, talking to some guy reporter, and he was explaining that the police were glad to get such a large shipment before it hit the streets. The reporter asked around, and people were genuinely glad that these scum drugdealers had been apprehended.

"Well, that's interesting news," murmured the Librarian. I was flabbergasted. I wanted to yell at her that I was the ten year old girl, but it didn't matter, because the phone rang. The Librarian answered it, "Hello?" she asked, wondering who'd be calling her this late in the evening. I scampered into the kitchen and sneaked the kitchen phone off the cradle.

"_Is this the Residence of Rebakah Cooper?" _said the voice on the line, which I recognized as Captain Haryse!

"YES!" I squeaked into the phone. Which obviously I shouldn't have done, but I was excited. I'd just seen the drug bust on TV, which meant I was really happy.

"Rebakah," sighed the Librarian, "it's wrong to eavesdrop. Can I help you sir? Why are you looking for Beka."

"_Well, I was just calling to see if she had watched the evening news?" _Asked Captain Haryse.

"I did, I saw Detective Potterkin talking to the reporter, and Special Agent Jewell in the background. But I didn't see you there, Captain Haryse, sir," I said excited, I had recognized the officers.

"_I just wanted to call to thank you personally, Beka. We really couldn't have done it without your help. Bringing the email in was very brave of you, and that thing you did with the computer was inspired." _Captain Haryse, it seemed, wasn't just talking to me, but to the Librarian, because his tone was certainly his 'talking to someone smart' tone.

"Your welcome. I couldn't just let him exploit the Public Library system that way." I said graciously into the phone.

"_Actually, Beka. There's another reason I called. I was wondering if you would like the chance to learn about computers better?" _he asked.

"I know a lot of stuff on my own. But I'd like to work with the computers, yeah." I said, wondering where this line of questions was going to lead.

"_Well, I know your just ten years old, but there's this grade school that feeds most of its students into Lane Technical College Prepratory High School. Over 90% of the students go to college, and because it's a technical school, someone with your skills would be right at home there." _

"That's very kind of you Captain Haryse, but Beka and I can't afford to send her to Lane Tech." Said the Librarian. "I'm afraid she'll be in the Chicago Public School system."

"_Well, you can't afford to send her to Lane Tech. But I can. See, I'm not really offering just the school. Beka, I talked to your Social Worker, she said that as far as she's concerned you're a well adjusted girl and more than capable of making your own decisions, so it's up to you. I'm offering to Foster you, and pay for your schooling from here through your second PhD if you want it." _

"You mean, you'd be my Foster father?" woah. I was surprised by the offer, but really it was too good to resist. "You aren't some freak are you? The Social Worker did say you were an okay Foster, right?"

"_Absolutely" _he said into the phone. I could hear the librarian breathing.

"What about my brothers and sisters? Could you take them on too?" I asked, holding the blue kitchen phone. The Librarian hung up her end and walked into the Kitchen. She didn't look mad or anything. She just looked me strait in the eye.

"Beka," she knelt down in front of me, talking quietly. "This is a really big decision, and much as I like you, Beka, and would love it if you stayed, Captain Haryse has a point. You are old enough to make this decision by yourself. Do what you think will be best for you." I nodded at her comments.

"Sir, could you take my brothers and sisters too?" I asked again.

"_Let me check with Teodora, my wife." _He went on hold for a minute.

"Won't you be sad?" I asked the Librarian.

"Beka, I've had fosters before. They come and they go. So far, you've been the best of them. But Captain Haryse is offering you a chance to be someone in the world. You wouldn't just 'do okay' you'd flourish. You deserve that. And there are other kids in the Foster system who need someone to care about them, to protect them, and to love them."

"Do you think I should do this?"

"Yes, Beka. I think you should do this." The librarian gave me a kiss on the forehead. The captain came back.

"_Todie says it's fine with her. She says if your brothers and sisters are half as smart as you are, you'll be the talk of the community. What do you say, Beka? Will you let me Foster you?" _

I took a breath and thought about it.

"Where do you live?"

"Lakeview, right off of Lincoln Park." He answered back immediately.

"Do you have any kids?"

"I had one son, but he went off to study art in Europe on scholarship." The captain sounded a bit sad, but I figured if his kid was alive and okay, and able to study abroad in europe, than the Harsye's had raised him strong and smart and gave him everything.

"Okay. I'll do it, but you have to get all of us. Promise?" I said quickly, resolving myself.

"I promise, all of you. It's fine with me. The more the merrier. I'll call your social worker, and you guys will be here before the school starts." Captain Haryse sounded ecstatic. He said goodbye and hung up. I looked at the Librarian and she pulled me into a hug.

"Be good, Beka. Knowing the captain, he won't tolerate nonsense too well. And if you don't like it, you can always come back here. Remember that." She said I wasn't grounded anymore and scooped us both some chocolate ice-cream and we stayed up late and watched "CSI" which was (and still is) the Librarian's favorite show.

Well. It really all was pretty good after that. We were Fostered and later adopted by the Captain and his wife Teodora. We even met our older "brother." He's nice but it's Mrs. Teodora who's in charge. She's nice, if a little weird at times, and SUPER fashion conscious. She's gorgeous though.

Lorine and Diona, were ultimately her favorites. Almost from day one, she cultivated them to follow in her fashionista footsteps. Lorine, it seemed, had been drawing and sketching and _designing_ clothes, while she was in Foster Care. Diona had been her model. Well, Teodora loved that both of them were the way they were. Diona took to ballet, and dance, and acting, and singing, and school plays and even did a few runway shows for youth events. Lorine however, started designing clothes for Mrs Teodora. They even got her a sewing machine: she makes clothes for all of us, and they look REALLY good. Mrs. Teodora is really happy, when she and Lorine design a dress together for the Policeman's ball, or some gala, or social event. The dresses are really great, really original, and always end up in the Social's section of the paper.

Will, well he fell in LOVE with Captain Haryse's Goldendoodle. A Golden-retriever mix. He fell into the whole dogs, cats, birds, gerbils, hamster, animals bit. He's gonna be a vet. Or he'll be a breeder, but like a specialty breeder, cuz he keeps track of EVERYTHING. Black pigeon plus white pigeon, yields three eggs. Which get you, a bunch more pigeons. But he knows everything.

Nilo, right now he likes sports, A LOT. His favorite is soccer. He plays on his school soccer team, The LakeView Mustangs. He loves his jersey, and draws the mascot (a horse) over EVERYTHING. Still, I don't know if he goes anywhere without a soccer ball. Well, that's them taken care of.

Me. I got to go to Lane Tech. Thought it was amazing. I'm going to The Chicago Academy for the Sciences and Technology for college. I worried, cuz they're like MIT hard. But it wasn't that bad. I got in. And, because my "daddy" is a cop, they gave me a scholarship. Which was sweet!

Anyway, I'm majoring in Forensics/Criminalistics and what I've deemed "Computer Pathology" because, I basically take a dead computer and reconstruct the whole thing. It's pretty cool stuff, but dang it's a lot of work. Meanwhile, I've been doing some volunteer and part-time stuff at the station.

If any of you thought, for a moment, that I would be a pure scientist, you were dead wrong. I work out with the Captain every morning. A six mile run, circling Lincoln Park. We pass by the University there, maybe you've heard of it, DePaul? Anyway, we run past there, and when we get back we wrestle and box/fight in the front yard. The dog joins us on occasion. It's helped the captain stay in shape though he's approaching his later 50's, and it's made me lean, long, and muscular.

I'm about 5'8. I have sandy blonde hair that never really went all blonde, but never went that dark auburn color like Nilos and Will's. And I won't dye it like Lorine and Diona do. My eyes, I'm told, are my best feature: so icy a blue they're almost grey, sortof ghostly, but they're "compelling." (Mrs. Teodora's word, not mine). Like I said, lean, long, and muscular. Not so muscular you can't tell I'm a woman though. I've got breasts, not big ones but they're there. Lorine says if I worked out a little less and ate a bit more, I'd have nice breasts like Lindsay Lohan, circa Mean Girls. Whatever that means. Anyway, enough about breasts. I get weirded out when people look at them, especially guys. Don't see the point, really.

Anyway, I want to be part of the police department. If not a cop, then an at the crime scene investigator, with a gun and the right to arrest people if I need to. There's that. What else to say?  
Oh, crap. Look at the time! I gotta get to class. You forget about the world when you open the computer like this. Later!


	3. Chapter 3: August 31, continued

August 31st, 2008  
Time – 7:30 pm  
Place: My Dorm Room  
Listening to: "Buttons" by PCD.

So. To finalize this ridiculously long history.

Just before I finished high school I had an interesting encounter.

I was taking a tour of the Chicago Metropolitan Stables. (Yes we have one of those). See, it's one of the places where we keep the police mounts and Captain Haryse wanted to see if there was a way to incorporate the Mounted Police more into the everyday police activities. See, generally, we only use mounted officers during events. And Riots. But mainly during events. Anyway, I was just on my way out of the stable when I got nose-butted by a big black horse.

"Easy there, Midnight," murmured a stable hand from behind me. "Don't you worry about Midnight. He's a ladies man. He'll let any female groom or officer handle him. But me? I can't come near him with a ten-foot pole." The groom smiled and turned back to the honey-colored horse in front of him. I reached a hand out toward Midnight. He pushed his big, velvety nose right into my palm.

"Hey there you," I chuckled, rubbing his nose and the sides of his face. Then, shock of shockers, I heard a sound that was very un-horse like.

"_MEW!" _

_Mew? _I thought. _Horses don't mew. They neigh and snort and clip-clop. But they most certainly do not mew. _

"Midnight, you did not just 'mew' did you?" I said, asking the horse and looking inside his stall. There, nestled in the corner by the feed-bucket was a cat with her kittens and one very rambunctious kitten standing too close to Midnight's plate-sized hooves.

Midnight snorted. See. Horse sound.

"Umm, you did say any woman could handle this horse, right?" I said aloud to the stable hand. He looked up.

"That I did. Something up?" he said, strolling over but staying on the other side of the aisle.

"There's a cat and her kittens under this lugs feed bucket." I pointed at the horse.

"Ay. The cat is Smokey. Chief Rat-catcher in these stables. Big cat and all, and she loves Midnight here." The groom popped a piece of gum in his mouth. I noticed he said rat-catcher and not mouser. In a city like Chicago, we have as big a problem with rats as New York does. Mice can be handled with a few traps and a single cat. Rats, like the kind you see in Chicago and New York, are bigger than some rabbits, meaner than most snakes, and smarter than some people. It takes a cunning cat, or a really tenacious dog to handle the rats in this city. So this cat must be some seriously tough stuff. Still, no matter how tough the cat, she can't be tougher than a horse. And kittens aren't tough at all.

"May I go in the stall?" I asked, putting my hand on the lock. The groom nodded.

"Sure, Midnight's not going anywhere." He said, and watched as I opened the door and slipped inside the stall.

"Here kitty, kitty. Why don't you come away from the nice horsies big feet, hmm?" I made a beckoning motion with my hand, but the kitten did not move. I nudged the horse so that he would step sideways. He didn't budge. Mind you, we're talking about an animal that was bred from a Clydesdale so that it would weigh more that 1,800 pounds and stand more than eight feet high. Of course I couldn't budge it.

"Midnight, step that way, would you boy?" I said, trying to shove the horse and he stepped over a bit which put the kitten out of harms way. "Good horse. Stupid kitty, you could've been smushed."

The kitten looked up at me, it's tiny black face half-invisible in the dim stable light. But those eyes, you could have seen them from a hundred feet away. Bright violet, and glittering like matched amethysts, they shone from the cats face. I was speechless. I knelt down and extended my hand. The kitten pounced on it.

"Alright Mr. Pouncing Stupid kitty, lets get you and your brothers and sisters out of the stall with the one ton horse." I scooped him and the other kittens up and scooched the mother with my foot then slipped out of the stall. I put the kittens down on a bale of hay and the mother jumped up to start cleaning them. Except the purple eyed kitty. She ignored that one. He mewed again, this time looking directly at me.

"The Captain is strictly a dog man," I said to the kitty, and it looked at me, all pretty eyes, shiny black fur, and perfect kitty cuteness. "He doesn't like cats." I spoke directly to the kitten. It just looked sadly at me. "Don't you give me that look." It mewed once more, a sad pathetic, 'nobody-loves-me' mew. "Alright. I'll ask the Captain. But you better be litter trained. And you better not mind dogs. Or other children. And I'm going to haul you around like one of those purse-dogs." I said, scooping up the kitten and running to catch up to the captain.

"She's an odd one, Smokey," said the stable-hand to the cat, "Absolutely bonkers. Talking to a cat."

I caught up to the Captain and waited for him to finish discussing regular patrols near the Buckingham Fountain Parking. When he finished he looked at me, smiling. I help up the kitten. His smile turned into a grimace.

"No," he said, not really looking at the animal, but rather at me.

I held up the kitty. He glanced at it.

"No, Beka." He turned around and I strolled in front of him, and shoved the kitty in his face again. This time he looked at it. Purple eyes and everything.

"Beka, it's weird. And small. And a cat. We're dog people." He argued, more for himself. I still didn't say anything, just held the kitty to me, where it started to purr. "Beka, you don't even know whether it's male or female. It doesn't even have a name."

"Please?" I asked, looking up with big eyes and a slight pout. The captain hesitated. I glanced at the cat and saw that he was giving the captain the same sad look he'd given me. _Good kitty, play it up, _I thought scratching the kitten a little bit. The captains shoulders came down.

"Alright. But he's your responsibility. I don't wanna know that we even have a cat. Got it?" He admonished me, knowing he didn't have to but saying it for the sake of posterity.

"Oh thank you!" I said, jumping to hug the captain, squishing the kitty between us. He mewed, than purred, and the captain scratched him behind the ears. "Did you hear that Mr. Pouncing Stupid Kitty, you're coming with me."

"Tell me that's not his name, Beka." The captain groaned and pointed toward his car. A good solid car that screamed 'COP' even though it was unmarked and didn't have any police lights or anything.

"No. His name is Pounce," I turned the kitty upside down really quickly, to which he meowed indignantly, "Yes, _his_ name is Pounce."

"Well. Now that that's decided. Let's go home. Todie said something about ribs tonight," he glanced at me sideways. "Should we stop by the pet-store or something to pick up a litterbox?"

"Nope. I'm going to teach Pounce to use the toilet," I said determinedly. The cat meowed, as though agreeing with me. The captain had to put his keys down he was laughing so hard he couldn't drive.

"Let's go home. You, me, and that cat." The captain wheezed. Miss Todie wasn't actually that happy with the cat, but in a couple of weeks, Pounce actually did know how to use the toilet. And he had a shiny black collar with silver studs which Will insisted looked cooler on a black guy cat than the plain old red collar I was looking at. He even had a tag that read "Pounce" on one side and the captains address and number on the other. Nilo wanted to name him Killer, but I told Nilo that his name was Pounce and it was too late since he already ignored me when I called him with Pounce, he wasn't going to do as he was told and come when called with a ridiculous name like "Killer."

"Cat's are sissy animals." Nilo decided and promptly went to go play with the dog instead. Will didn't care either way, while Lorine and Diona were all for dressing Pounce in clothes so he promptly avoided them. The captain liked it when Pounce purred in his lap, but pretty much ignored him the rest of the time. And Miss Todie was rather unnerved by those big purple eyes, and that blacker than black fur, so she sortof avoided him.

When I went to college, I had fully decided to take Pounce with me into the dorms. Our school has a very firm no pets policy. But when I checked the problem with the pets with the dead of admissions he said it was because animals are a distraction, and that the care of said animals detracts from the learning environment and that students didn't need the added expenses of pet food, litter, cages, leashes, etc. But since Pounce uses a toilet, and not a litterbox, he didn't need anything but a collar. And as for food, he'll eat anything, not just cat-food so really it wasn't any more of an expense for me. I just gave him whatever I didn't finish. And since cats don't need walking, or baths, they were better than dogs. So I brought the cat in anyway. And no one really asks me if it's okay, or tells me that it's not, because it's just not worth arguing it. Cats are quiet. End of story. Perfect for students. So, that's how Pounce went to college.

As for me. I'm going to read a little bit for my class on political studies tomorrow, and then go to sleep. Pounce is already taking up half my bed, the bugger.


	4. Chapter 4:September 1, 2008

September 1st 2008

After Volunteering.

Okay. So, I've mentioned being in college right? Well, here's how it works. First Day of classes was Thursday, that was the 28th, great stuff. Actually, not really because buying books is a pain in the nether-regions. Friday is the next day (for m/w/f classes) and then you have the weekend. Fantastic, no? Anyway, yesterday was the 31st (a Sunday…for you slow-pokes). I was at the lab yesterday and I guess I didn't mention it because I wanted to finish that ridiculous history.

So, when I say I was at the lab, that means I'd gone to the police house, and gone to the western end of the building. The first and second floor are mainly legal, thought the pit takes up almost the entire first floor so it's not just legal. But you know when it is, because those in legal get the nice big roomy offices. Floor above them is evidence lockup. They put it upstairs because they realized when it was on the main floor, it was too easy to tamper evidence and get away with it. When it's on the fourth floor, you're spotted by at least a dozen cameras and half dozen cops. Said camera's feed into a special security room, also on the fourth floor. Mind you those cameras are mainly watching the eastern side of the building, where we keep the bad-boys in orange.

Anyway, for the safety of chain-of-evidence, there's two entrances into the "Lab" part of the building: right next to the legal offices in the western end, and then just off the pit, feet from the Captains office. According to safety procedure, we're supposed to have an entrance/exit on the eastern end, but see that doesn't work because of the boys in orange, so we put the ballistics lab underneath them, that way they can hear gunfire at random hours of the day. It makes them twitchy, but that's good because it breaks down their psyche (A shrink would tell you that's psychological torture, but the captain says it's not torture when the scum in there are listening to their own pistols down in ballistics and that the shrink needs to stop feeling sorry for theses lowlifes). A

If you go in down the staircase next to legal, which most people do because it's bigger, you're faced with a sortof rectangle of hallways. The floor opens immediately into a fork and in front of you is the secretarial desk run by two wonderful amazing women. One works the phones (both of them) the other handles the filing cabinets. The former is Miss Leticia Mali, a robust black woman, who takes absolutely no sass, and loves long acrylic nails and lots of teeny tiny braids in her hair. If you sass her, she'll make your life misery, because apart from handling the phones (an important job if you're underground and can't always get a signal) she's also in charge of checking in who comes to work on time and if she flubs your minutes, you don't get paid as much as you're working.

The other lady couldn't be more different. Miss Svetlana Gorgoskaya is an ex-Russian body-builder and at first glance, a tough piece of work. Her skin is tan from a booth, hair is blonde from a bottle, and eyes are naturally a deep sapphire blue and so hard, you'd swear she'd gotten them from the Russian Crown Jewels or something. But she's the softy: she feeds Pounce, the K9 officers (the dogs and their handlers) all love her, and she just coddles them. However, she's also super anal when it comes to organization and reports. I swear, she lives in those cabinets, just try handing your report in late, or not filing the right form, those dark blue eyes of hers will cut you into a million pieces while she curses you in Russian. Not cool. Anyway, unless you're a regular in the lab, you must sign in, get a visitors pass, and being poked and prodded by Leticia and Svetlana.

To the right is a room with a lot of big machines, most of them covered in gray plastic. The room is run by a sweet, bubbly girl with a sheet of naturally ash-blonde hair and big aqua eyes: Verene Clarke is our resident specialist in Unidentifiable Particulates. Her tool of choice, the mass-spectrometer and her microscope. Though if those don't work, she's got a whole host of fun gadgets in that room. Right next to her is our DNA lab: nothing ultra super high tech (like we can't tell if people have Parkinson's, but we can tell if DNA is or isn't a match) It's really more an annex to the unidentified particulates, but the tech there is Andrew Wolfe Cariss, just known as Wolf. He's supposedly part Cherokee, but that's way back so far, the only think even remotely Cherokee is his nickname. He takes his time, but Wolf is tidy.

Verene's the genius. Wolf is Tidy. Past Wolf's annex is another series of rooms, they've just got those light-up tables and a computer in there. Our crime scene analysts use that room to, well, analyze the stuff from crime scenes. There's a bunch of them, and they have to share the rooms, and be nice to the stuff. The last room isn't really a room, more of a hallway to our garage. That corner of the garage is reserved for the times when the techs have to bring in a car for analysis. It's an awkward corner. After that is the east end of the lab, and that's Ballistics. They get this huge room with computers, and boxes, and a whole wall of guns of all kinds. They've also got a separate wall with knives, hammers, they've got a sword and a mace in there. Unusual choices, but if it can be used as a weapon, it is in there. There are three techs in Ballistics: Tory, Allen, and Darius. The set of them is called "TAD" but we don't say that in front of them. They claim to be unique individual people. In all honesty, however, they're pretty much the same guy with different hair-colors and eye colors. All of them like the same stuff, live the same way, and you can pretty much gauge how they'll all react based on ones reaction. Sucks, but it's the truth.

Verene. Wolf. TAD. Who's next? Okay, well if you take the left fork, after Svetlana and Leticia's desk, there's Archives. Archives has pretty much a gigantic room (smaller than ballistics but bigger than any other single room) and a whole bunch of boxes of information that's not in storage lockers. Paper evidence, reports, old crime-scene photos, and file upon file that's not current. Once Svetlana has deemed a case "not-current" or "Cold" then it goes into Archives, where it's catalogued based on type (murder, suicide, suspicious circumstances, etc), then by year, then Victim type, folder number and number of folders, closely followed by a "U" for unsolved, "C" for closed. The worst are the ones marked "S" –serial, or one of a series of murders.

Example, if it's a Rape/Homicide, in 2002, of a hispanic female, unsolved, with three files the Tab will read "R/Hm.. 1/3. U." See. Not overly complicated. But there's just rows and rows of boxes and files in hard copy, and Tony, who's really the only person in there, also spends his days putting everything into a digital copy. It's a miserable job, but it's something. Tony Benedetto. Tall, olive-skinned, big olive green eyes, lithe as an arrow, with dark curly hair which he keeps short, and a mouth that smirks as often as it smiles (which is always). He looks a bit like the bust of Octavian (Caesar) and his Italian roots were evident in his looks. And his libido. His thankless job left him with a lot of pent up energy, and a rangy look that made him appear ready to jump anything in a skirt that was older than 18 and younger than 30. Tony loves women: he likes the look of them, the feel of them, the way they sound, the way they smell, and the way they look. To him, all women are goddesses on this planet and he calls them all _signorina _or _cara _or _ma bella _or _madonna _or _amore. _And since he's spent time in Italy proper, he talks about the art this and the beauty that, and Tuscany this, and speaks in Italian and can pronounce Ermenegildo Zegna with a perfect accent.

Tony is sweet, a good guy, and a practicing Catholic. He prays, goes to church on Sunday, and volunteers to coach kids soccer at his church. He says his saint gave him his calling. Saint Anthony of Padua, is the patron saint of lost things. He finds old files that people have forgotten or "lost." Mind you, he's a bit vain about that name. The Church he goes to is St. Antony's Parish on the west side.

Although he's wonderful, I avoid him like the plague. Tony is, as I've said, pretty horny. He can take a "no" but that doesn't stop him from flirting just for the hell of it. He constantly comments on my legs. I have nice legs, but not so nice that I think they warrant the amount of attention Tony pays to them but, oh well. Between Tony and the Ballistics department (both huge offices) is another set of stairs and a tiny office that buzzed and whirred silently. Computer Crimes and Tech. It had two guys in there: Leon and Archie.

(Noticed the number of guys yet?) Leon is an old hand. He's an import from the 60's. He claims he found his calling from all those eaves-dropping and scandals, and spies. He deals, almost exclusively in bugs, camera's, recorders, speakers, earwigs, spy-glasses, and the list goes on. He knows where to plant them, how, and how to fix pretty much everything there. However, the old guy isn't so hot with the most modern computer stuff. That's why we have Archie: half asian, half-something else, he's got spiky black hair and big round gray eyes. Unusual, but not as odd as mine. His are more, sky before it rains gray, mine are ghost grey. Archie's pretty decent with anything with a microchip: Camera's, computers, cellphones, and the list goes on and on. He's also got some of the best decryption skills on this side of the Mississippi River, mind you he's no hacker. But if he's got a warrant, he can decode anything.

Captain wants to put me in that department. Mainly because I've got mad computer skills, but also because although Leon's good, he's also getting on in age and wants Archie and me to learn about the bugs, and then both of us would take the department when Leon retires. At least, that's what we're hoping. However, I'm getting the degree in criminalistics and etc, so that just in case I can't work with Archie, I can still work in the lab. Maybe even be a Crime Scene Technician. I'm trying to develop a program that will help me be a computer pathologist: basically someone who can take a broken, locked, or erased computer chip, and reconstruct the Data that was once on there. It'll take some time, and some work.

One more thing: under our lab is a tunnel which leads to the Medical building across the street. In the basement of said medical building, is a gargantuan room which is technically considered part of our Department: The Morgue. We have three to five coroners, which alternate and take cases as they come along. The room can hold 30 bodies in drawers, and there's also a 'cold-room' where we can store extra body's and overflow. One of the coroners, Dr. Virginia Swann, is also a specialist in ossified and non-flesh remains. They call her in when there's not enough flesh left for a regular autopsy. Bones are her specialty, though she's more than capable of discerning what happened to a regular body.

Now that everything is all nicely explained and described, let me explain my day. I don't use the big stairs, I go through the staircase next to the pit. While I'm there, I usually nod a hello to Sergeant Matthias Tunstall, a big tall cop who looks a bit like an owl. He's gone a bit gray around the edges from stress and he's got a beard he keeps well trimmed. Not that that's a bad thing. Handsome guy, unusually sharp eyes, and on occasion, a smart mouth. But he's a sturdy guy, and on good terms with almost every cop in the pit. The only person who ever has problems with him is his partner, Corporal Clara Goodwin. She's a tough woman who keeps her hair short, her muscles strong, and prefers to whallop someone with a stick than shoot them, not that she's afraid to use her gone. She's got a nasty double-tap that will fell a man 300 yards away. She's ex-marines and I'll be damned if she wasn't sniper-trained. Although she's shorter than me, she's faster, stronger, and meaner. Her hair is graying a bit too, though one rookie called her an old lady, and she sent him flying into his cruiser. Not smart. They work the worst of the worst cases: Homicide-Special Victims.

I'd like to brag and say they're the best of the best, but really, they've got the nastiest job here. It's one thing when you've got gang-crimes, or drug-related crimes, or just plain robbery-homicide. But special victims works with the cases that disgust and horrify us the most. The raped and decapitated little girl, the baby boy who was left in a dumpster without his left foot, a woman who was savaged and brutalized then sold into prostitution or slavery (which still exists, illegally, even in Chicago) and then murdered or had her tongue cut out or some awful thing. A teenage girl who died because she fought, rather than marry a man three times her age. Stuff like that. They deal with the crazy's, the sick, the perverted, and the just plain nasty. They aren't the best because they solve the most cases (though they do) they're the best because after almost 20 years of seeing the worst that can be done, they still managed to retain some essence of their humanity, though it beats me how.

If Tunstall and Goodwin aren't busy, I stop by, say hello, and usually manage to come just in time because Goodwin doesn't know how to trouble-shoot her computer, she just smacks it and mutters that it better work or she'll put a bullet through its brain. On the off occasion, the computer may spontaneously reboot (Tunstall pulled the plug and plugged it in again) or they'll call me or Archie to fix it before Goodwin shoots an inanimate object and gets sent to a shrink….which is bad for both Goodwin and the shrink. More the shrink, because he'll probably need his head shrunk after dealing with Goodwin. Or just a doctor.

Today was one of the days where Goodwin's computer behaved, but she was growling at the printer. Tunstall was using a pen to fill in this mornings Sudoku challenge in the paper. He looked up when he saw me.

"Goodwin, stop growling at the printer and say hi to Boo," he said loudly and threw a crumpled up post-it note at her. She glared at him.

"Morning, Cooper" she growled and smacked the printer with her palm, "Why aren't you working? The first three pages were fine, and now they're all bleary and pale. Work, damn you." She smacked it again.

"Good morning, Corporal Goodwin," I said leaning over her shoulder, "Your printer is out of ink." She looks up at me and glares.

"Why didn't it say so?" she grumbled and got up and went to hunt up the office supplies secretary. She'd be back quickly.

"It undoubtedly did says so on the computer, but Goodwin ignored it because the ink was still coming out in black and so now she's left with only three pages of her report." I said, propping myself up on Tunstall's desk. "Nine" I said, looking at the Sudoku on Tunstall's desk.

"A fine morning, isn't it, Boo?" Tunstall said, filling in the number on his Sudoku chart and looking up at me. Tunstall has been calling me 'Boo' since the Captain first brought me to work. Everyone else said I had 'creepy eyes' or 'ghostly eyes' or was 'silent as a ghost' or 'didn't say boo to anyone.' Tunstall took one look at me and said, "What's the matter, Boo?" and it stuck. I was "Boo" ever since. Mind you, only Tunstall calls me Boo. No one else. It's either Cooper or Beka. Miss Svetlana calls me "Little Rebakah," but in general I don't have a lot of variation in the name.

"The birds are singing, the weather is nice, and there are children outside playing," I say, dramatically listing the good morning,

"And Goodwin's beating objects instead of perps," Tunstall finishes. "It is a good day. How was first week of school?" Tunstall asks about that stuff, though I'm sure it's because adults are supposed to ask young people how was school, rather than because he's actually interested.

"Four courses. Two science. One gen-ed. And one social-studies." I say, looking again at Tunstall's Sudoku. "Teachers are all good so far. No homework yet." I say brightly.

"Bully for you," grumbles Goodwin as she huffs back with a small box for her printer. "Install them," she grunts, shoving the box of ink cartridges at me. I slide off Tunstall's desk, go to Goodwin's computer, and pause the printing and back it up a couple of pages. Open the printer, replace the cartridge, and continue the print job. Goodwin mutters a thank you though she doesn't say it loud enough for Tunstall to hear.

"Are you volunteering downstairs again?" Tunstall says, looking up at me, he marks his paper with a flourish. "If you look at those computer screens too long, you'll need glasses."

"Yes, I'm downstairs, though I'm helping Tony scan files into the system. Boring work that must be done," I sigh dramatically, "Unless the two of you need me for something." I'm actually rather hopeful, cuz I'd like to avoid Tony and his lusty glances.

"Something wrong with working in Archives?" asks Goodwin, and Tunstall rolls his eyes.

"She doesn't realize what it's like for a young, pretty, dear like you to have to work alongside that Italian lecher," Tunstall clucks sympathetically. Goodwin glares at him.

"You're the lecher. You can't touch an underage girl, Mattes" says Goodwin narrowing her eyes viciously. Tunstall gives a theatrically exasperated sigh.

"Goodwin. Our Boo is not underage," Tunstall pulls me into a dramatic hug, I can only let out a _oof_ before he crushes me to his chest, like one of those cartoon mothers crushes Sylvester to her bosom. "She's all growed up and almost legal now."

"Tunstall," I grumble, "lemme go, or I'll tell Sabine." It sounds more like I said, "sta-stll, ilme go rrr ill tlebine." Not that _that _means anything. He hears me, though I don't know how much Goodwin got. Sabine MacCayhill is an Assistant District Attorney who prosecutes criminals in the name of the city. She stops in all the time, to discuss with our legal department on cases. But also to see Tunstall, who has a soft spot for her. Anyway, he lets me go.

"Aww, Boo. We miss our innocent angel, that's all." Tunstall pets my hair and I wince.

"Mattes, the girl was hacking at age ten. She hasn't been innocent in years," Goodwin tugs me away and brushes off fake dust from my touching Tunstall. "Besides, don't tell me you weren't secretly celebrating when Beka reached age of consent."

"And on that note, I take my leave," I grumbled and let them argue. Mind you, no one saw me leave or really noticed I was gone. I heard Tunstall saying loudly, _"Clara Goodwin, how dare you insinuate something so crude! You make it seem like I've got no morals at all!" _

I check in with Svetlana and Leticia, who give me a plastic badge, with my name on it that says, "Volunteer." I've been here so often, I think they got tired of giving me sticky nametags. Now I get my own plastic tag.

"We missed you, _cherie_" says Leticia. Her mama was from New Orleans, so there are some words that Leticia just says because that's the way she learned them. _Cherie_ is one of them. "It's been a few days. During the summer you was always here."

"I had my first days of college. So I had to focus. But I'm back," I say with a little 'tadaa' with my hands.

"It is good to have you back. There are so few women in the lab, these boys get unruly" Svetlana says, taking a rubber stamp and slamming it onto a piece of paper. "Especially those lab-boys. Always testing theories and making a mess. Bah." She then mutters something in russian as she stamps a few more forms.

"What will you be doing today, _cherie?" _asks Leticia, ignoring the phone, which is ringing.

"Helping Tony," I say quietly. No point though. At the sound of his name, Tony comes strolling out of Archives. Vain as a cat, that one. It's like he knows someone's talking about him.

"Beka, _cara_, we haven't seen you in a few days. How is everything? New school, new dorm, new friends?" he asks, and gives me a very Italian, double-cheek-kiss.

"Everything is great, Tony. I haven't got room-mates. I have one of those new-fangled dorms where each person has their own little room, but they share a kitchen, bathroom, and 'living room'" I add the air quotes to denote that it's not really a living room, "with two other people."

"How fun! What are the other girls like?" he asks, putting an arm around my shoulder and walking me into archives. I glance woefully at Svetlana, who blows me a little kiss, like I was a soldier going away to war. Tony chatters incessantly while we go through the boring process of scanning and filling in forms and data fields, and I make small talk until it's almost time for lunch. At lunch, I escape to the pit again. Tunstall and Goodwin are gone, but I can see the Captain (as he's called cuz he's at work) in his office, typing something on a computer, then glaring at the phone.

I tap on the door. He looks up and gestures me in.

"Waiting for someone to call?" I ask, tossing him a sandwich. Ham and swiss, extra mustard, on rye, popped in the staffroom microwave long enough to melt the cheese, but not enough to heat the mustard. Then rolled up again in its paper to keep it warm.

"Bless you," he says, holding up the sandwich. "The Mayor's office is supposed to call to remind me that we're doing something wrong. And I'm mentally prepping myself for the fight with bureaucrats." He bit his sandwich with vehemence. "How's school and when are you coming home?" he asks and I give him a look.

"School is great, and I'll be home for Saturday afternoon lunch," I respond, eating my own sandwich. He finally does get that call from the mayor and has me pick up the phone while he swallows.

"Captain Haryse's desk," I say sweetly, "Yes I'm aware of who you are, it's just Captain Haryse is in a call and you were bumped to my phone. Yes, hold please, I'll connect you," I say in my most operator-ish voice. He swallows and wipes his mouth, then takes the phone and motions for me to scoot. I do and I work my way downstairs. Altogether a boring day, but it will hopefully get more interesting in the lab.

* * *

**I guess this should be the point where i add, Beka and all Terrier-recognizable characters do not belong to me, but rather to Miss Tamora Pierce (the wonderful). Even some of the un-terrier characters aren't mine and are actually inspired from a variety of TV shows, including (but not limited to) Bones, CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, and NCIS. Do not sue me.....you all know the drill....but let me add, that this disclaimer hereby extends to all previous chapters, this chapter, and every chapter succeeding this one, until the end of the story. Yadda yadda yadda, no copyright infringement is intended, simply the enjoyment of writing and telling a story involving already developed characters. Herein witnessed by the readers of this fanfiction.....yadayada, the undersigned.**

**Adagio to a Wolf, (aka LADY WOLF) **

**Reviews are much appreciated.  
**


	5. Chapter 5: September 2, 2008

Tuesday September, 2nd 2008

Listening to Beyonce, "And you will always be my boo"

Time: Around 7:00 pm.

So, today I was in my political studies class at school when a younger guy walked in right in the middle. I could tell from his ill-fitting brown suit that he was so not a student, and if a student was that late, they'd forego going altogether. He walked up to the professor and said something to her. She looked at him like he was a bug, then nodded. He faced the classroom.

"Rebekah Haryse Cooper" he said aloud, shouting over the group. I stood up and walked to the front of the room. When I'd reached age of consent, I asked for a name change, so that I could have Captain Haryse's last name as my middle name. People look at me odd sometimes, but I don't care. When the man sees me, he realizes who I am, and hands me a piece of blue paper. "Your presence is requested at the Cook County Courthouse"

"I surmised as much, considering the subpoena," I snarled at him and popped the seal on the blue document. I looked inside, and I could see people around me itching to look at it, including the teacher. I read it and realized it wasn't actually a subpoena, just written on the blue paper so it looked like one. I groaned, noticeably.

"Your presence is requested immediately," the man says, and I find myself disliking him. He has such a plain, boring appearance, but he talks like he's just realized he's king of the world. He coughed, and made a hand gesture that suggested I hurry up.

_Okay, _I thought,_ I so need to teach this guy his place. _I went over to my bag and packed up my stuff that I'd figure I'd need. Lucky I take my computer everywhere. I then proceeded to keep walking, right past him and directly to the professor.

"Go. You'll get today's powerpoint from me later, and do tonights reading," she said, dismissing me with a look. I nodded and continued to stroll right past her and out of the classroom. The man in the brown suit, who was technically an intern or gopher, stuttered and practically ran to catch up with me.

"We can get to the court-house the fastest if we take the train," the guy said as we walked outside. I looked at him and shook my head. "Erm. If you want, the number 8 bus should be here in a few minutes."

I whipped out my department ID and shoved it in his face, "Look at this," I said carefully, watching him cross his eyes to focus on it. "Do I look like a novice to this city's legal system? Or like I don't know where the courthouse is?"

He stuttered. I took my ID out of his face and turned around, walking toward the main street. Just up the street was my ride. I stuck up my left hand and put two fingers from my right hand in my mouth and whistled hard. Mr. Gopher jumped at the loudness of my whistle.

"Taxi!" I called out and the bright orange cab drove up. I noted the cab company and car number, and stuck my head in the open window. An older white man looked at me. Something akin to Romanian or Bulgarian streamed from the radio. "How fast can you get downtown?"

"Very fast" he said, motioning for the door, "Maybe ten minutes, less." He motioned again for the door.

"That's impossible. Even if we took the train now it would take fifteen minutes to get downtown from here." Mr. Gopher muttered, "Besides, I don't have a cab-fare." He muttered some more.

"I really don't care," I told him and opened the door to the cab. "You get me downtown in less than ten minutes, without killing someone, you can keep the change." I said, holding up a twenty. The driver nodded and took the bill. Mr. Gopher reached for the door. I held tight. "You can take the train I have to be at the courthouse immediately." I said with a sweet smile and slammed the door shut.

The driver was indeed fast. In seven minutes and 45 seconds, I was downtown. (I timed him) and was walking toward the courthouse. The steps are wide and broad, but not really high, and perched next to a concrete pillar was Tunstall. He had one cigarette in his mouth. He spotted me and blew his smoke sideways so I wouldn't walk into it.

"Hey, Boo," he said, tapping ash. I plucked the cigarette from his fingers.

"You know smoking is bad for you. How are you supposed to chase down perps if you can't breathe because of emphesema?" I asked him, holding the cigarette away from him.

"Boo," he groaned, reaching for the darn thing, "I'm an old cop. When I was a rookie, you could still smoke in the courtroom. Give it back, Boo." He didn't whine, however, so I will give him that.

I took a quick puff and then blew the smoke in his face, smashing out the cigarette while he spluttered. "Smoking is bad for you," I said succinctly, grinding the butt with my shoe. "What's so important you had to haul me out of class?" I asked.

"Goodwin and I need your help," he said, already checking his pockets for his lighter. I snaked my hand into one pocket and grabbed the pack and lighter and put them into _my _pockets.

"I got that much," I said, rolling my eyes. "But it better be something big."

"We've got a judge bugged," he said, glaring at my pocket and then at me.

"There are more judges in there than felons, which judge?" I asked, exasperated.

"Judge Walters" Tunstall said, leaning down a bit so his voice wouldn't carry.

"The property guy?" I asked, taking a step back, so Tunstall would be forced to walk toward the courthouse. Judge Walters was known for his unusual handling of home foreclosures and the like "What'd he do?"

"Nothing," Tunstall said, slowly loping toward the door. I poked him.

"If it was nothing, then you wouldn't call me down here. If it was for no reason, it would be a felony. He is still a justice of the peace." I said, poking him again.

"Need to know," Tunstall said, still loping up the steps. His stride ate at the ground and I hat to trot to keep up. "Problem's the bugs," he said, holding open the doors, and allowing me in before him. "Someone walked into his office and they just went haywire. One minute, sound was clear as crystal, picture perfect, next it was static and snow. Leon said it must be the computer, cuz his bugs were working fine."

"Okay. But it's got a bigger chance of being a problem with the bugs rather than the computer," I said following him into a side hallway. We approached a room that had a yellow sign with black letters that read, "ROOM UNDER CONSTRUCTION, RESTRICTED ENTRY." Tunstall looked up and down the hallway then slipped inside. I followed him in.

"What took you so long?" grumbled Goodwin, rolling away from a computer, which was beeping helplessly. I put my backpack down. She glared at me, "You shouldn't let him smoke, it's bad for his breathing." I tossed her Tunstall's cigarettes. She bared her teeth in a smile, "Good girl. Now if you can fix the computer too, I'll buy you lunch."

I sat down at their computer station and did a quick systems check. How many bugs were in the building (200), how many per floor (variable), how many were on judge Walters floor (almost 50) how many were in his office (10) and what type (6 audio, 4 visual). The bugs were, indeed, in perfect working order. I checked the computer again, and found nothing wrong there. I leaned back, looking at the thing. I checked the wi-fi signals for the bugs. I swore.

"Crap, crap, crap," I muttered and started to haul out my computer and some cables. "Please tell me I'm wrong," I muttered and checked more stuff on the screen.

"She needs a computer to tell her, that the other computer is broken?" grumbled Goodwin, "what is this world coming to?" Tunstall shushed her.

"Boo, what's wrong?" Tunstall asked, "Is it really bad?" He talked like the bugs were children bleeding in the street or something and I was the only doctor available.

"Where are Leon and Archie?" I asked, typing furiously.

"Setting up bugs for the captain, someplace," Tunstall looked over my shoulder. "How do you know what to type?" he asks, looking at the screens.

"I just do," I muttered, and kept looking for the information that would assure me the wi-fi feeds on the bugs were in working order. Nothing. "Shit." I swore and pulled out another cable, and started formatting the computer.

"Did you figure it out? Is it really bad? Talk to us, Boo, when you just grumble and mutter, you sound like Goodwin before she shoots someone." Tunstall actually shook my shoulder. "And we don't want you to shoot someone." Goodwin punched him. "Especially considering it's just me and Goodwin in this room." Goodwin punched him again. "Ow. And shooting either of us would call attention to us." Goodwin punched him twice. "You know that hurts, Clara, and if you do it again, I'll let her shoot _you."_ Goodwin glared at him and pulled out her service revolver, putting it on the table next to me, daring Tunstall with her eyes.

"_Children," _ I said, noting the annoyance in my own voice. I pushed Goodwin's service revolver back in her direction, "Put your toys away, mommy knows what happened in the judge's office." I waited for Goodwin to clip the gun back into it's holster before I continued. "Whoever walked into that room has a scrambler," I said, with some finality. "And not a regular scrambler, which just ruins information, but the kind that backs it up and mixes it up. I don't like this."

"Scrambler?" said Goodwin, her mind racing behind her eyes as Tunstall helped hand me another cable. "Like the kind people use on Radar guns?" Her eyes narrowed, feral.

"Something like that. Only, it's not working on radar, but the cellular signals being emitted by the bugs. It catches the information before they output, holds it, scrambles it, and sends it back a jumbled mess.

"If that's illegal in cars, it'll be illegal on computers," Tunstall murmured digging further in my bag, looking for all the random equipment. "Right, boo?"

"Well, yes and no" I said, furrowing my brow as I concentrated on formatting the computers so that the worked as a single cohesive unit with twice the memory and twice the power. "Tunstall, there's an external hard-drive in there, haul it out will you?" I noticed him looking in the bag a bit confused. "It's green and box shaped, not much bigger than a walkie-talkie." I said, exasperated a bit by their techno-incompetency.

"What do you mean 'yes and no'?" asked Goodwin and I could feel her temper starting to sizzle.

"Bugs are illegal. Protecting yourself from being bugged, is like buying a gun or a can of mace to protect yourself from being mugged. However, normally people who buy mace or a gun, aren't doing it to rob a liquor store. Their using it as a just in case. However, using a scrambler to hide the fact that you're doing something illegal is illegal. In that situation, it's like a radar scrambler. Most people who use radar scramblers, are speeding, which is illegal. So, like I said, yes and no. I would say this is the latter, and not the former, but it's hard to prove." I had a small station of computers set up and was typing furiously in my laptop.

"So what are you doing now?" Tunstall asked, looking over my shoulder. He liked having a play-by-play, I'd learned, because he couldn't stand the idea of standing silently while I worked. He could at least passively participate by listening, maybe even learn a thing about how the computers worked and use it for a later date. Tunstall's head was like a filing cabinet, or a computer hard-drive: you never knew what sort of useful data was stored in there.

"Well, right now I'm working out a circuit, so when the scrambler gets turned off, the data that does rush back here doesn't fry your computer. See, the data's been backed up for almost a half hour. That's a half hour of video and audio feed from 10 bugs that'll all send at once to this computer. Could you imagine what would happen if you had ten minutes of radio from 10 different stations, all played at you at once? Your ears would hear everything and nothing, it would just be chaos. Well, by using my computer and the external hard-drive, I can basically say, "Videos you line up here, and audio you line up here," and then they'll wait to be saved to the computer without jamming up your computer, or the other bugs you're monitoring. Make sense?"

"And we'll be able to see everything that happened in there?" Goodwin said, standing up and putting her hand on her gun. She was ready to haul ass.

"Well, no. It's scrambled, like an egg. Some people are trying to develop programs which figure out the scramblers algorithm and apply it to the data, with only mild success. Think about it, Goodwin, could you unscramble a scrambled egg?"

"I don't eat scrambled eggs. I like mine sunny-side up." She scowled at me.

"You know what I mean. Once it's scrambled, you can't put it back together again perfectly. You may just get clips of sound and video. Nothing concrete. And no assurances on the worth of what you do get. Sorry." I pushed myself away from the computer and saw Goodwin scowling.

"You're done?" she growled, wondering why I'd stopped.

"Well, I can't do anything more until the scrambler gets turned off," I said cracking my knuckles. Tunstall winced at the sound: he couldn't stand it.

"Oh, I think there's something you can do," Goodwin said with a feral gleam to her eye and went over to a small closet in the room and motioned for me to follow her there. She examined me up and down. "Taller, but on the lean side. Not skinny though. Hmmm…..medium." She rummaged in the small closet and pulled out a pencil skirt and pink blouse.

"Absolutely not," I said glaring at the bright pink blouse. It even had ruffles on it. "I mean it Goodwin. Who the heck am I supposed to be on that floor anyway? I'm not old enough to be a lawyer." She shoved the blouse and skirt at me and rummaged in the closet some more, pulling out a pair of glasses and a nametag.

"A young, frustrated, intern working for," she looked at the nametag, "Sabine Macayhill, the ADA. Your name is Nora Shepherd. Wear your own shoes, they'll be fine." She motioned for me to put the clothes on.

"What? I can't even get a moment alone?" I asked, glancing sideways at Tunstall. Goodwin smirked and nodded.

"Get out, Tunstall." She said, her smirk firmly in place. Tunstall looked ready to protest. "Get _out_, Tunstall. Now." Goodwin's voice was firm and Tunstall shuffled out, sticking his tongue out at Goodwin as he left. I slipped into the clothes Goodwin had given me, grimacing at the blouse.

"I can't believe any man or woman in our department thought to buy a pink shirt, with ruffles!" I grunted, trying to zip the skirt.

"It was on sale," Goodwin said, her mouth twitching. _She'd bought the shirt!!_

"I'm filling your iPod with Miley Cyrus and the Jonas Brothers. It'll just be chock full of kiddie-pop. You'll pay for this, Goodwin, I'll make you pay for it." I put the glasses on and set the video screen on the computer.

"Just don't tell Tunstall you've done it, he'll ask to borrow it," Goodwin grinned at me and opened the door, shooing me out into the hall. Three random folders were shoved into my hands. "Now go upstairs like a good little intern."

"What am I not borrowing?" Tunstall asked, escorting me in the direction of the elevator.

"Goodwin's Miley Cyrus filled iPod," I grunted and felt my underwear crawl up in the skirt. I tugged the skirt lower, but there was nothing I could do about the problem.

"I like Miley Cyrus," Tunstall smiled and pressed the elevator button. He waited with me. "Girl knows how to rock out. And her lyrics aren't all bad." He smiled jovially, and pressed the floor in the elevator. I walked in and let the doors close, leaving Tunstall on the ground level. I shook my head, clearing my thoughts, especially the image of Tunstall rocking out to Miley Cyrus, which was slightly comical. Slightly.

When the elevator doors dinged open, I saw a line of people, all of whom were clutching large files and boxes of paperwork. Some were organized. Others were more lacking in organization, still others were just nervously lumped together. I closed my eyes for a moment, clutching the fake folders to my chest. It always hurt to see people in these moments. This floor was filled with people who were about to lose their homes. Not sell, not buy, but lose their homes. Homes they've lived in for years and hoped to pass down to their children. I took a deep breath.

_Nora Shepherd. Nora, short for Eleanor. That's the name of a queen. Anyone who'd name their daughter 'Eleanor' is sure to have money and a good chunk of it. Shepherd, that's an older new-england name. It may have been an actual shepherd's name once, but not anymore. Okay, New England family. Probably wealthy. Never dealt with real poverty in her life, never really had to. Used to having money at her disposal, probably has a trust fund or something lying around somewhere, from a favorite aunt or uncle. Very country club haughty. Law school and work are just a way for her to meet a fancy hot-shot-lawyer-husband. Okay, I've got the mentality down. _

I opened my eyes, and saw the people in front of me jerk away. My gaze must have been frigid and disconcerting. I straightened my posture, tilted my chin slightly upward, putting my nose just barely in the air, transferred the files easily to one hand and popped my hip and placed a slight sneer-smirk on my face and walked down the hall toward the judges office. As I got toward the front of the line and old hand grabbed at my shoulder.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but I was wondering if you could help me," the man stuttered and wheezed, and I turned to face him and he didn't jerk. In fact, guessing by the amount of rheumatism or cataracts in his eyes, I was surprised he could see me at all. He was so old and gray, it was quite hard to tell his age for sure, but older than 70 for sure. For sure. "Are you a lawyer?"

"Um. No, sir, I'm not," I said, losing my east-coast haughtiness in an instant. I tried to pull my hand away, but his grip tightened on my shoulder.

"Well, can you tell me when Judge Hawthorne will start seeing people? I've been waiting in line since the courthouse opened and I wanna get this will settled," he could barely see me, but he patted the paperwork. Before I could continue, he added, "My wife Laura and I were married fifty years. Woman had a brain for paperwork, and a system. But when she died last month, I figured it weren't soon before I had to go to. I'm gonna leave my son some stuff, but like I said, I was wondering if Judge Hawthorne was gonna start seeing people soon?"

My gut twisted and I felt awful for the guy. He was old, ignored, and standing in the wrong line, on the wrong floor, waiting to see the wrong judge. Guessing by his eyes, he probably had the wrong paperwork, too. I looked at Judge Walters' office. Then, by miracle of miracles, who should walk down the hall toward the elevator, but Sabine MacCayhill.

"If you'll give me one minute sir," I told him and trotted over to Sabine's side. "Hey there, counselor, what's shakin'" I said in a way I hoped reminded her of Tunstall.

"Do I know you?" she asked, looking at me really quickly.

"I'm your intern, Nora Shepherd," I said showing her the badge, I could see she was about to argue with me, so I added, "Mat Tunstall sent me."

"Oh! Right! Sorry sweetie, just not used to having an 'intern'" she winked, letting me know she got the gist. "What can I do for you and Mat?" she asked.

I looked down the hall at the old guy and he smiled. "See that old guy there, he's on the wrong floor, in the wrong line, waiting to see the wrong judge, and he's been here all day. Guessing by the rheumatism in his eyes, he probably can't see or someone sent him up here as a joke. He needs to speak to Judge Hawthorne."

"Judge Hawthorne presides over last will and testament," Sabine said slowly, not quite getting it, and then she looked at the old man. "You know Judge Hawthorne will only work until four and you want me to help."

"Please? Judge Hawthorne is also surprisingly fond of female lawyers who do pro-bono work," I said and she sighed.

"Alright, bring the old man this way. Sabine MacCayhill, defender of the poor and the helpless." She said, gesturing for me to go get him. I trotted back to the old man and led him to Sabine.

"The moved Judge Hawthorne to a different floor, he's been downstairs since a while ago. Lawyer MacCayhill will help you get in to see him." I said, and the old man nodded and smiled.

"Thank you. See, I didn't know that Judge Hawthorne was downstairs," he smiled and followed Sabine into the elevator.

"I owe you one," I told her.

"I'll bill Matt," she said with a wink as the doors closed.

_Okay, back to Judge Walters and his unusual office-guest._ I was about halfway to the door when my earwig cheeped.

"_That was really nice of you, Boo," _Tunstall's voice said in my ear. I would never get used to someone talking directly in my ear.

"_You're supposed to be an intern for a lawyer. Do nice on someone else's time," _Goodwin grumbled in my ear. Great, I had two extra voices in my head, neither of which was mine.

"_Don't listen to her, Boo. She's blubbering into a hanky, the old softy."_ Tunstall said, and yelped as Goodwin indubitably hit him.

"_I'm about to teach you something about manners. What did I tell you about lawyers, Matthias Tunstall? And do I look old to you?" _She probably hit him again, because he yelped a second time. I paused by a water-fountain, cleared my throat and took a drink. Goodwin came back to the microphone, "_Go look at the judge, Cooper, while I handle this bugs-for-brains." _

They shushed each other while I made it toward the judges office. A secretary waited out front. I showed her my ID and she nodded and I ducked past the velvet rope that separated the waiting area from the rest of the hallway. There was a small waiting area with a metal counter on the right side, and a few chairs before the door. A blonde-man was seated in the one closest the door.

"_Look at the Blonde, Cooper, we need to freeze frame on his face." _Goodwin muttered into my earwig. I was going to, honest, but the door opened and the judge walked out, and suddenly there were three men by the door and the judges guest, whoever he was, was leaving. "_Screw the blonde, Cooper. I want that visitor's face!" _Goodwin barked into my earwig and I trotted over to the man, reaching for his back as he went towards the stairs. As soon as my hand landed on his shoulder, I was roughly shoved backwards into, and right over, a sofa. Landing with a soft _whomp_ in the blonde man's legs. He fell backward over me and we became a tangle of fabric and legs.

"_Did she get it? Did the camera get a look at his face? At all?" _ Tunstall asked Goodwin in the earwig. He groaned.

"I guess not," I said aloud, then mentally kicked myself for not paying attention to judge Walters and his blonde friend.

"What do you 'guess not'" asked the judge, glaring at me, while the blonde man and I untangled our limbs.

"I thought he was someone I recognized. I guess not," I lied quickly, straightening my glasses and checking subtly to make sure my earwig was still in place. It was. The blonde man fixed his pony-tail, which had been knocked askew by me tumbling into him.

The judge helped the blonde man to his feet, gave me a sneer, and opened the door for his guest to walk into the room. The blonde man gave me a look as he walked in, and I froze my glare on his face. He had a nice face, very striking. He was as pale as ivory, with dark ebony eyes staring out from a face that had high cheekbones and very mobile mouth. There was a small line of worry in that mouth, thin upper lip, full lower, and a long, strong nose. I would say he looked a bit like that vampire from "Buffy," what's his name, Spike? But with the long-hair I couldn't say it with certainty. Perhaps more like one of the elves from "The Lord of the Rings." Yeah, like an elf, but a hard elf, because although his looks were clean and strong, there was a harshness to the line of his mouth. As though he always sneered with it, rather than smiled. I heard Goodwin say _"got him" _in my ear, and I watched the door slam.

"Ouch," I muttered, rubbing by shoulder, having landed on it funny when I went over the small couch. "I see true chivalry is dead when you have the money to wipe your nose with a fifty. Rich garbage." I pulled my limbs under me and stood up as normally as a pencil skirt allowed. I then proceeded to pick up my files and folders, which were strewn across the floor. Underneath one bright blue folder, was a phone, this I picked up and pocketed. I then proceeded to re-sort the papers, and made my way down the stairs, not really wanting to look at the secretary after that awful fiasco of a fall.

Tunstall was waiting for me at the end of the staircase.

"How you doing, Boo?" he asked, putting a hand on my shoulder and I winced.

"It'll bruise. I'm sure of it." I said, handing him the folders back and following him back to the room where Goodwin was waiting for us. She grunted and closed a window on the screen of the computer.

"The bugs are sending all that backed up information," she said, watching as the files downloaded and played a few. They came out a garbled mess of information. "Not able to understand a bit of it." She said, and let the rest continue downloading.

"If you want, you can wait around to get your computer back, but I have a feeling that it'll be buffering a while. We'll buy you food?" Tunstall offered and shrugged uncomfortably in my ruffled blouse.

"Nah, just return it to me, cables and all when you're done. You know how to take the files off of it, right?" I asked, sitting down. Tunstall shook his head.

"Nope, but we'll have Archie do it." Goodwin said, shrugging. "You should go home, Cooper. You look like you could use a hot-shower. And maybe some advil for that shoulder." She put headphones back on as she listened to what was going on in the judges office with the blonde man.

I pulled the earwig out, wiped it down, and put it back in its box. Tunstall took it and put it in a box filled with more stuff. I took of the glasses and handed those to him too. He looked at the outfit I was wearing. "That's police issue," he said, glancing at me up and down. I glared at him.

"I'm not changing in front of you, you lecherous old man." I said, grabbing my own clothes and opening the closet so I was out of Tunstall's line of sight. I switched into my own clothes, after checking that he couldn't see me.

"I am not a lecher. I just appreciate beautiful women. There is nothing wrong with that." Tunstall said proudly. Goodwin whacked him on the head. "Goodwin, what was that for? I hadn't said anything yet?" Tunstall whined.

"My daddy had a saying," Goodwin grunted, "You shouldn't hit a kid after he makes a mistake. You have to whallop him good while he does it or he won't learn. If you hit him soundly before-hand, he won't make a mistake. I'm just making sure you don't make a mistake with that big mouth of yours." Goodwin spoke sternly, and took the headphones off completely.

"That explains a lot, Goodwin." Tunstall muttered, and Goodwin smacked him again. "Ouch! Will you quit beating me! I know you loved your old-man, but really!" he grumbled and whined and I grabbed the essentials out of my backpack and let them duke it out.

"I'm surprised they get anything done," I muttered under my breath, leaving the courthouse. Grabbing a train, I made my way back to school and back to my dorm. I remembered the phone I'd picked up as I got to my room. I left it on the table, figuring I'd deal with it later and took a shower. I was bone sore from that fall. Afterwards, I scooted into a comfortable pair of pajama pants and a tank-tee while I studied.

I read some stuff for the class I missed until someone knocked on suite door. I opened the door a crack, since we didn't have a peep-hole, and let Tunstall in. "How'd you get past security, downstairs?" I asked.

"Told them I was your uncle," he said, holding up not one backpack, but two. "Brought your computer back."

"Yes, and something else," I said, grabbing the bag I knew was mine and hauling the computer out onto the table. Tunstall dropped the other bag onto the couch. It didn't make a lot of noise, so I figured it had clothes in it. Tunstall walked around the dorm, checking the kitchen cupboards and smiling at the contents.

"College staples. Ramen noodles, pop-tarts, and coffee," he chuckled, closing the cabinets and walking over to the "living room" window. He looked out it and checked the window locks. Nodded. I let him play cop and check the room for security. He grunted at the doors of my suite-mates, (they'd left their rooms unlocked, which was stupid) and proceeded to make sure the main door was sturdy.

"What's in the other backpack?" I said, pointing at the bag with a pencil.

"Captain had a couple visits from some other departments around the country. They heard about the layout of our building and wanted to check it out, see if it was practical for their own. They brought presents." Tunstall leaned against the tiny kitchen counter, and watched as I opened the bag.

"CSI hat! Cool!" I said, seeing that first, and jammed the ball-cap onto my head, and ran to the bathroom mirror, and smiled at the black cap with the stark white letters.

"How come they're so cool? You have a whole drawer-full of CPD gear, and you aren't this happy?" Tunstall said, leaning over to watch me fiddle with the hat.

"They have a cable show?" I suggested, running back to the bag on the couch. Tunstall grunted in a way I interpreted to mean, 'they aren't that great.'

"You have everything you need here?" Tunstall asked, very much the protective uncle he claimed to be. "Any problems in the dorms or with your room-mates?" he glanced at their rooms.

"None, Officer," I said with my innocent girly voice.

"You be good, Boo," Tunstall said, and let himself out. I heard him walking down the hall, his boots muffled but audible on the carpet. He paused, and I peeked out the door and saw him with his ear pressed against a door about halfway to the elevator. He frowned. He banged on the door and I heard two people squeak and fall out.

"POLICE. Open up!" he shouted on and I heard said college students shuffling around, "You better be using protection!" Tunstall said loudly, stifling a laugh. Someone responded with a 'yes, sir, officer, sir!' and Tunstall trotted to the elevator. If Goodwin were there, she'd have boxed his ears. But being as she was undoubtedly either in their cruiser or at the station-house, she couldn't box them. Not now anyway. After Tunstall left, I sat down and wrote this.

* * *

**Author's Note: Other Business**

**1. The third book (Tammy's Version) is rumored to have had its title changed to "Mastiff" instead of the old title, "Elkhound." (Thank goodness, if you ask me. Has anyone ever seen an elkhound? A very, un-Beka-like Dog.) Though it has yet to be confirmed by her publisher, she has mentioned "Mastiff" on her blog, though it still hasn't been changed on her official website. Which makes it hard to know which is for-real, but i feel it's going to be "mastiff" in any case. However, the story line, supposedly remains the same. Cools. For those of you who've read (my version) of Bloodhound, be aware, i still plan on calling it "Wolfhound."**

**2. I noticed in the last chapter, there were a few word errors. I also realized that my word-document was correct and that somewhere in the transition from Word to FanFic it got twisted, and a few letters were deleted. Unusual. The specific deletion was from the 'file' date, though WHY it was deleted, i'm not sure. But it was, and i don't feel like changeing it or hunting down the reason why. I don't feel it took away from the reading.**

**Thanks! Please read and review.....**


	6. Chapter 6: September 3 and 4

September 3rd 2008

Location: Dorm "Living" Room

Time 6:00pm

Forensic Chem 101. The most boring class ever. You spend 8 of 12 weeks learning lab protocol and memorizing the periodic table, before you even approach the science lab. But it's a class I must take to get to Forensic Chem 102, 103, 202, 203, and the very difficult 303. What happened to 201, 301, and 302, I'm not quite sure. But it's yet a question my advisor knows how to answer.

I finished my homework and the reading last night after signing off and decided to check out the Blackberry storm aka the Crackberry. See the thing is appropriately named. I couldn't even unlock the darn thing and I was already addicted to it. Boy, did I wish I could figure out the code on there so I could see the potential of the machine.

This morning, however, I was frustrated enough by the darn thing. Today is Wednesday and I decided to, after the above mentioned chem class, I left for the police station, stopping by my dorm to scoop up the crackberry and Pounce in a bag and getting some money. Before getting to the station, I stopped by a Gyros place and ordered two, one with extra tzatziki. When I walked into the building, bypassing the front desk, and went immediately downstairs. People greeted me, glancing occasionally at my bag, which smelled of hot food, and the black cat on my shoulders. I veered right at the main desk and moved down the hall, waving at Tony who wolf-whistled, and the empty ballistics lab and into the room which beeped and whirred quietly. I popped in there.

"Archie," I said quietly and his head popped up from behind a computer. "I have a bit of a bribe for you." I held up the bag.

"Food?" he said, inhaling quietly. He clicked something off and stood up.

"Gyros. Still hot," I swung the bag gently.

"What do you need?" Archie said, coming around the desk.

"De-code this phone. Just de-code," I held up the crackberry. He nodded.

"Piece of cake," he said, his nimble fingers working over the phone and attaching it to a device which—to simplify—uses an algorithm to figure out the numbers or letters in the code, faster than trying to type in each pattern by hand. He put the phone down and padded over silently.

"More or less tzatziki?" I asked him, opening the bag on his work desk.

"More," he said, leaving the phone on the work bench. "Will I be enjoying your company while I eat?" he asked, sitting down.

"If you don't mind," I said pulling out more napkins. He nodded and gestured that I join him.

"Then let us dine in civility," he clicked on a keyboard and his super-screen computer showed a video clip of the greek coast. It was like eating in Greece without the cost of traveling, or the time difference.

"Hi, Pounce," Archie said looking at the cat which jumped from my shoulders. "You want a piece," he asked offering a piece of gyro to Pounce, who ate it immediately. "Good Kitty. So, Beka, tell me, what's with the crackberry?" He took a bite for himself.

"Found it," I answered truthfully and took my first bite as well.

"Really? Wow. You gonna rewire it?" he asked over a mouthful.

"Nope. Return it," I said, swallowing my own, smaller mouthful. "So, where's Leon?" I asked, noticing that Archie was alone in the lab.

"He's still showing Potterkin how those bugs work," he grumbled, shaking his head disdainfully. "Man cannot be trusted around anything with a circuit-board; he either spills coffee on it or gets powdered donut on it." Archie shook his head.

"There's hope," I say solemnly.

"Yes, there's you" he smiles at me. "Techno savvy, brains, and respect for chain of evidence." He paused and scratched Pounce's head with a knuckle. "And a cute butt to go with it all."

I glared at him. "And he had to mention the butt. You were almost decent there for a second."

"Gimme a break, Cooper. I _am_ a guy, you know," Archie twitched an eyebrow at me and winked. I glared coolly back at him.

"Call the make a wish foundation." I said pointedly.

"Jeepers creepers, soften up your peepers, sugar. You can't blame a guy for trying," he winced and continued eating.

The phone beeped. Unlocked. _Well that didn't take long._ Archie stood up, grabbed a pen and post it and scribbled something down on it. He un-hooked the phone and handed both phone and post-it to me

"P.1.P.3.R" I read off the post-it.

"Yup," he said, still eating the gyro.

"I wonder what it means," I said to myself more than him. I put the phone and post it in my pocket.

"It's a girls name," Archie said around a mouthful. He swallowed quickly to explain.

"Not a name I know. Unless it's some StarWars character like C3PO." I jibed, knowing his love for the epic.

"No," he said, narrowing his eyes to admonish me for my quip about the Little robot on StarWars. "P.1.P.3.R. is SN speak for the girls name,"

"Piper." I finished, looking at the note again.

"Like from Charmed. The one who wasn't so hot and wanted to be normal, even though she could blow stuff up and freeze time, which was wicked cool if you ask me. Way cooler than reading minds. Though mind you, Phoebe was probably the hottest sister, so she had that," he was getting his groove with the analysis of the series, and I held up a hand to stop the chatter.

"I know the series, thank you very much. But why 'Piper?' Girlfriend? Sister? Mother?" I thought out loud.

"Drag name? Pet poodle? Who knows? Ask him when you find out who 'he' is" Archie had wolfed down his gyro and had reached under a desk to grab an iced tea. He couldn't drink coffee or caffeinated soda because it left him too wired to work. Me, I'd inject the stuff into my veins if I could. I live on coffee.

"I'll find out," I told him, taking one more bite and giving the last of my gyro to Pounce.

"Your vet must have a field day when he runs your cats blood. He must have higher cholesterol than Rollo does." He shuddered, but wiped up the crumbs from the table.

"Pounce is fine. He's like a dog. Or a goat. He'll eat pretty much anything." I wiped my mouth and denied the proffered drink. Pounce looked indignant at being compared to a dog. But then again, it may have been the comparison to a goat.

"Thanks for lunch," Archie said, and I saw him slip back into geek mode. Ah well, we were basically done anyway.

"No, thank you, Archie. For everything, for the phone help." I say and disappear quietly from the room. On my way down the hall, Tony blocked my path, leaning against a wall. His bright green eyes, glittered with a lusty gleam. _The Italian Libido. Here we go._

"_Signorina_" he said in a sweet Italian accent.

"Hiya, Tony" I said, trying to get around him. He didn't let me.

"Lunch with Archie?" he asked and his eyes flicked down the hall.

"Yup." I said, realizing I wasn't going anywhere.

"How come you never have lunch with me, _cara_?" he asked bending his head to watch me with hunter-green eyes.

"Well, I don't need your help as often. I am more than capable of using Google, thanks though." Tony knew a snub when it came his way.

"You never know, you may need me. And I have this feeling in my gut that you'll need my help really soon. I don't know when, but it'll be sooner." He smiled with a lusty grin. Did I mention that his thankless job made him horny, and liable to jump anything in a skirt, older than 18 and younger than 30.

"Sure, Tony," I said and rolled my eyes.

"Maybe we could do lunch sometime?" He said with a cocky grin.

"Or coffee," I said with enthusiasm. Tony winced. Although he was Italian in everything from Armani to Zucchini con Fettuccine, Tony didn't do coffee. Why? Because it was a diuretic, and thus, messed with his physique, which he kept meticulously trim and very fit.

"Or dinner," Tony said, trying to bend the conversation in his favor, "Come on. You, me, and a late night snack."

"Oh, drat. I can't. I have to be in bed by ten, Captain's orders. Sorry, Tony." I managed to scooch out of his way, and scampered up the stairs.

"Cute, Cooper. But you will need me. Until then, Archives awaits your call." He tapped a finger to his orbital ridge. _God, the heat in here is too much for me._ After that, I went back to my dorm (that is to say—here) and got ready for my class tomorrow, forgetting the darn crackberry for the rest of the evening.

Now that I'm sitting here, I realized, that although I've been living here a week, and I've met one of the dorm mates, a girl my age, from New York named Olivia. The other girl has a sign on her door that reads "Carey" but I've yet to see the girl. Olivia is a psych major. Carey, I have no idea. Olivia is fine, she's sweet, honest and willing to share info about herself as soon as you ask. Basically, she's the perfect room-mate. Carey, like I said, never met her. But so far, she hasn't eaten any of mine or Olivia's food. So far so good, but I have a feeling that she'll be the oddball in this "suite."

September 4th 2008

Thursday

Still in Dorm, at the end of a really busy day.

I guess by this morning, you'd think the phone would have been disconnected or something but that thing rang this morning and, out of pure reflex, I answered it. It rang with DeBussy's _Claire de Lune_, not a sound I expected as a ring tone, especially not one from a man.

"Boss," a man said on the other side, "I been waiting for you to unlock that swankified phone of yours" I interrupted before he launched into a chat.

"Um. Your boss isn't here right now. Gimme your name and I'll let him know you called," I said, hoping a name would give me a link to the owner.

"Um. Never mind then. Just that Brian called," before I could ask for a last-name, the guy hung up. _Damn. _I cursed. I looked at the phone. It logged the call as being from one, 'Bold' Brian.

"Bold Brian," I said out loud, "Why does that ring a bell, Pounce?" I checked out the phone and in it were a lot of epithetical names. 'Bold' Brian. 'Fat' Al. 'Big Boy' Jim. And the more I looked through them, the more they itched at my mind. Resolving to figure it out, I googled the names and got a lot of creepy myspace accounts; loser tubs with no life and a fetish for videogame ladies. Ick. Ick. Ick. I doubt it.

I pulled up one of the leftover police programs. The first tab said SURNAME. _Well, I don't know it. _Two tabs down it said ALIAS. _Hmm. Perhaps. _So I typed 'Brian' into the name tab, and 'Bold Brian' into the Alias. Sex: male. Age: 20-40. Case years: past two decades. City: Chicago/Cook County. If the guy was clean, this would show up nothing. This is only for people with a suspect file with the police.

The program processed for a moment while I pulled a pop-tart out of a box from the kitchen. When I got back to my room, the computer beeped. 2 records. _Hmm._ I opened the first and got a file that discussed a car hustler in the mid-eighties. Status: Currently incarcerated. Mmmm, somehow I doubt it. Next file, 'Bold' Brian Johnson. Armed robbery, tax evasion, falsified documents, smuggling, money laundering. Fascinating, high-class crimes. Status: At Large. I read down. "Contact Mob Crimes Division of the FBI." Yeesh. Heavy Duty Stuff.

I kept reading. Known associates: 'Fat' Al Coppola. 'Big Boy Jim" Richerson. Aniki 'Keys' Forfrysning. Koramin 'Lady' Ingensra. 'Peep-eye' Peter Kameli. Whoa. Quite the cast of characters. Brian's picture was at the bottom of the file.

_Meow!_ Grumbled Pounce, swatting my package of pop-tarts.

_Quite the mugshot,_ I said looking at the cool suave face of a man who was certainly not the Judge's blonde friend. I looked up some of the other characters, first the guys, to see if any of them was my blonde man. Nope. I searched the women.

Nothing with Aniki "Keys" Anderson. But a lead with Koramin. There was no mugshot for "Lady" Kora but a photo of her at a fashion show, seated next to a blonde man. The Blonde Man. The caption read: "Koramin 'Lady' Ingensra; suspect by association to boss Rosto." That was it. She had no crimes listed except aiding and abetting.

"Rosto," I said it out loud, looked at Pounce. "That's not a common name is it, Pounce?" He glared at me then tapped the pop-tarts package. "You have kibble," I said pointing to his dish. He turned his back to me. He hadn't touched the kibble in days. Standing up, I went over to Olivia's door. I knocked and heard her drop something and say, "Ow!"

"Livvy! I got a question for you," I said through the door. And she popped it open.

"What's up, Beka?" she asked, smiling with all her teeth. Olivia was a combination kid. Thick curly dark hair, pale ivory features, and big Irish-blue eyes. Like I said earlier, she's into child psychology, and believes that our names affect our personalities.

"How popular a name is Rosto?" I asked and she disappeared into her room for a moment. She appeared with "The Monster Book of Names for Children: World Edition" She flipped to the section labeled "R" and searched 'Rosto.'

"Rarity index. 1 in 500,000 boys are reportedly named Rosto in Scandinavian countries. Popularity falls to 1 in 5 million in non-Scandinavian countries." She parroted, reading directly from the book.

"So in the city of Chicago?" I asked, "There would be…"

"Hypothetically? Two." She said, closing the book.

"Last name?" I asked.

"Scandinavian.? Something ending in –son perhaps." Olivia said, sounding interested. "But I wouldn't chance it. There likely aren't many 'Rosto's.' Police business?" She asked, leaning against the door, book in hand.

"Good Samaritan business. Found his phone," I said, "Thanks for the help. Quick question, what does 'Rosto' mean?"

"Rosa is latin for rose, but most Scandinavian countries aren't too hip to latin. Ross-a is dawn or sunrise in some Germanic and Slavic countries. But again, not so hip in Scandinavian. It's supposedly an alteration or subversion of the man's name "Ross" which has lost its meaning over the years." She said it all quickly.

"What, my friend, is the supposed original meaning of Ross?" I asked, wondering.

"Well, it's believed to be a masculinization of Rosa in all its myriad of meanings." She said with a sly smile.

"Rosto means sunrise or rosie?" I asked for confirmation. She snorted a laugh. "How masculine," I teased.

"Evidently. Hope I helped," she said, disappearing back into her room.

"You did, thanks" I went back into my room. I looked at the computer in my room for a couple of minutes. I typed Rosto in the NAME tab and hit enter. The computer processed for all of a second and out popped one file. Just the one. _Here we go, _I thought for a moment, and then clicked the file.

Rosto "Boss" Flautista. Sex: Male. Age: 22. Same picture as the one with Koramin. An address. And a note. Nothing else was listed.

_22?! Are you kidding me? How the heck does he have clout with a judge if he's 22? No list of crimes, nothing but a little piddly note. _

"Do not approach under any circumstances. All activity relating to Boss Rosto Flautista must be approved by the Mob Crimes Division of the FBI and monitored with full and complete surveillance." I read it aloud and Pounce looked at the computer screen. "Pounce, it says we need FBI permission to return his phone."

_Meow!_ Pounce tapped at the keyboard with his paw and I humored him and looked again. I read until I realized that there was a "last known address" on file. It was downtown. Open, accessible, fully public. Who'd know?

"Wouldn't kill me to try, would it, Pounce?" I asked him, looking at the screen. He meowed again. "Alrighty then. Get your tail in gear, my fine feline friend, we have a mob-boss to go see." I changed clothes and pulled out a large black and white bag and Pounce walked over to it and tossed my poptarts into the bag. He then proceeded to hop into the bag. I tossed in my essentials and the crackberry. Before I left, I checked my reflection in the mirror. Brown skirt, green shirt, black and green flats. Nice, polite, respectable looking.

Once outside the dorm, I headed for the train station and grabbed a Red-Line train into the city. Not completely smart because it was the tail end of morning rush, and still a bit busy, but not absolutely awful. I got off near Jackson Boulevard and headed toward State Street.

_HELLO CHICAGO! _I thought, pausing for a second to feel the beat of the city, and look up at the buildings which fought for presence in the sky. _Hell yeah, this is my kind of town._ I said, breathing in and out and continuing on my trot northward. In Chicago, everything is supersized. Sidewalks are monstrous. Streets are four lanes, in one direction (because it would be way to much hassle to coordinate traffic lights in this part of town. One street goes north. The next goes south. One goes east, the next west. There's a decent bit of circling, but better than trying to figure out all the arrows—trust me). Limos and cabs and busses and horse buggys and BMW's all use the streets with the disorganized rhythm which is Chicago's life blood. Jazz and blues. Harmonic, melodic, chaotic, with a little punch of something that doesn't quite fit, but it works.

Finding the building took all of, oh, a minute. In Chicago, the streets are numbered as well as named, so you know how far you are from 0 n/s and 0e/w. State Street and Lake Street, is 0/0. State runs north and south, Lake runs east and west. However, the next street over from State is Michigan Ave. The magnificent mile. Perhaps you've heard of it. It's street number is 100W. Now I know someone out there is shaking their head going "North and South streets cannot be numbered 100 _west_" but it works like this. Lake streets number is 0. But the buildings around obviously aren't numbered "0 State Street" 100 W. Lake Street would be the intersection of Lake and Michigan Ave. Meaning the building. Because it's 100 "blocks" WEST of 0/0. Still too complicated? Probably, because there aren't 100 blocks between two streets. It's easier up north.

North Southport and West Wellington are numbered 1400W and 3000N respectively. That means that Southport, which is a N/S running streets is 1400 blocks West of the center line and Wellington, which is an E/W running street, is 3000 blocks north of 0/0 or center. See, downtown, all the numbers are kindof squished together, they spread out abit as you go out further. But the point I'm trying to make with all this north south east west terminology is that Chicago is organized. So that, even if you don't know the exact directions to a location, you can guess where it is by looking at the address. So if something is at 3450 N. Southport, you take Southport North until the Wellington intersection, and then a little bit more until you get to 3450. See. That's all you have to do. No looking for specific cul-de-sac or having numbers change as you enter a different village or neighborhood. Organized. Thank you Burnham plan.

Anyway, Rosto's building was right there, in the heart of Chicago. _Bold for a mob boss._ It was one of those combination buildings with a coffee shop and restaurants on the main level, offices in the middle and at the top were private apartments with a view that could undoubtedly take your breath away. I walked in and found it hard not to stare. I had to remind myself twice to act like I belonged there. I went up to the "reception" desk. Behind the desk was a great honking list of businesses and their floors and extension numbers. From floor 58 onward was the note, "Private Residences: for Lease" and a number you could call if you wanted to rent in the building. Nope. I went up to the man behind the desk.

"Hi, if I wanted to talk to one of the private residents, how would I go about doing that?" I asked him politely, folding my hands on the high desk.

"You'd need to know the tenants name and apartment number. Or name and phone number," the receptionist said gruffly. He wasn't really a receptionist, more of a concierge, cuz he had on one of those fancy suit-things and he looked properly annoyed at wearing it. I felt bad for the man. Still, you'd expect better manners from a concierge.

"What if I don't know the floor or phone number?" I asked him, looking at the list behind him.

"Guess," said the concierge, probably ignoring me.

"Okay. I'm looking for Rosto Flautista, and he should be in the penthouse suite," I said patiently, "Or something close to the very tippy top."

The concierge looked up, a greedy gleam passing over his eyes. _Ah-ha. So you aren't really in customer service are you?_ The gleam was so fast and so nasty, I could immediately tell. He was an undercover agent planted to watch Mr. Mob-Boss. "And what can I help you with, ma'am?" He said, too sickly sweet for my comfort.

"Um. I found his…uh…wallet. At the courthouse. But since I work for the police," I narrowed my eyes at him and he took a step back, "I thought I'd give it back directly. I was wondering if you could call his suite and check if he was here, so I could give it back to him." I tried really hard to maintain the extreme politeness even though I itched to smack the concierge.

"If you'd like, you can leave it with me, I'll make sure he gets it," the concierge said it and I could only imagine one of those cartoon villains rubbing his hands together. I could also tell, he wasn't a Chicago Police plant, rather he was a government issued FBI agent who had less brains than an ostrich. I'm biased being a product of the CPD but still.

"No. I'm afraid I can't really do that. Wallets are personal things and I've already had it too long. If you could just call him, please." I heard the elevator ding behind me. The concierge turned around and faked calling a number and waited silently.

"I'm afraid Mr. Flautista is not in right now. As I've mentioned, you may leave the, uh, wallet with me and I will deliver it to him." He smiled at me, but it was one of those one-sided, crooked smiles.

"Um. No, that's alright. Could you please try calling one more time? Perhaps he was in the washroom and didn't hear it." I say to the undercover agent and his look falters to one of exasperation.

"Mr. Flautista," started the cop

"Oh can it Barty," said a woman from behind me. I swing around like a lightning bolt, and I see a tall beautiful blonde woman with big blue eyes dressed in a pair of plain pants and an athletic jacket. There's a bulge at her right hip and I can guess: Gun. "You aren't fooling anyone with that get-up. You reek of FBI." She glares at me and points to a small lobby, still out in the open, but with a few potted plants for 'privacy.' I scamper over there and wait for her to stalk over. While she walks I get a good look at the woman who is Boss Rosto's right hand. Aniki "Keys" Forfrysning. Keys, as in, Keys to the Kingdom. She looks better in person than in her mugshot. However, she also looks a lot fiercer in person.

"That was stupid, kid," she says, glaring at me. "You never deliver goods here. And being early is bad for this game." She tells me, as though trying to teach me a lesson.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled, patting my bag and feeling Pounce purr through the purse. "This was, tragically, the only address I found for Mr. Flautista."

She scoffed. "No one calls him that. He's just Boss, or Sir. What have you got for him?" she says, sticking out her hand. I saw the small firearm at her waist. Yikes.

"Please call him. This is for his eyes only." I repeated, getting a little frustrated with the ridiculous hoops a person has to jump through. She whipped out her cellphone and punched a button in speed dial. After about a second, the phone in my bag began to play DeBussy again. Aniki's eyes narrowed. She hung up and tried a different number.

"You better get down here. Small lobby off the elevators. Trust me, you'll wanna see this one." She said it and hung up. We waited in silence together for a few minutes. The elevator dinged again and I saw a figure made of ivory and gold dressed in cargo-pants, a funky-mod t-shirt exit the elevator with his hair pulled up in a jaunty ponytail that, I kid you not, bounced while he walked. The Blonde Man, the Mob Boss: Rosto Flautista.

He walked over to the lobby and looked at me. "Pretty," he said, eyeing me very obviously from head to toe and back again. "Demure, but pretty. You have a dog in that bag?" He asked looking into it. Pounce popped his odd, purple-eyed head out with a mew. Rosto reached and scratched his ears. "What is it, Aniki?" he said, turning to her.

She looked at me. "Go ahead. Give it to him." She commanded me and I shook my head, clearing my thoughts and dug into my bag, having work around Pounce.

"You have something for me?" he asked confused, "How, we've never met before." He looked me over again as I pulled out the Blackberry.

"Actually, we did meet, rather informally, on Monday," I say it carefully and extend the phone back to its rightful owner.

"Monday?" he glares at me, then circles me, trying to place me. "Look at me directly," he says and I stare him straight in the eyes. The dark brown, almost black, eyes. "You're the legal aid that some brute threw into Judge Walters and me. The judge didn't even help you up. I called him out on it when he'd closed the door."

"Interns don't mean much to a judge," I commented, still extending the phone.

"You are not an intern," he said and I saw a cocky grin pull at his mouth, "so lets be honest and admit it."

"Lose the grin," I said it seriously and with a little bark. I had gone through the hard work of giving this man back his phone and he wouldn't even touch it yet. "I'm sure half the people in this lobby and the one out there know you are not the most upstanding citizen," I fake a smile for posterity and wait for his response. His grin breaks out completely.

"Very well, miss not-an-intern. What do you want from me? Information? Confession? Blackmail?" He leaned against a couch and I pushed the phone at him. He looked at it like he'd only just seen it and realized it was his.

"You dropped it when the uh, brute, threw me into you." I said and again extended the phone toward him. Stubborn idiot that he was, he just looked at it.

"You found me from my phone?" He asks and I nod. The blonde man crossed his arms over his chest. Shrinks call that a self-protecting posture that allows mental distance by creating a physical barrier. Cops call it suspicious.

"It's bugged." He says and I can see Aniki's hand floating near her hip.

"Nope." I still push it toward him.

"You rifled through it." He says with an 'I caught you' look.

"I only picked up when Brian called this morning." I say it with all honesty and extend the phone again. This time he gingerly takes the phone from my hand. Careful to touch my skin and linger in the touch.

"Did you figure out the password and download the contents to an outside computer?" he says, not looking at the phone yet.

"Password, yes. Download, No. I used Brian's phone call to find you. But I didn't use your actual phone." I crossed my arms, self-protecting because I don't like being accused of this sortof nonsense. "You're surprised." I say noticing his look of complete astonishment.

"Well, yeah. I am. Especially considering what you are," he says, finally looking down at his phone.

"And what would that be?" I ask, holding my purse with Pounce in it tightly.

"You are a cop. Not FBI, no. You've got CPD written all over you. You reek of it." He has the audacity to sneer at me at that moment.

"Is this an actual physical smell?" I ask, sarcasm coating my tone, "The combination of muddy coffee, stale donuts, and gunpowder?" I joke with him, which is an inevitably bad idea. He moves so fast that I haven't got the time to execute any self-defense maneuvers on him. He pins me up against a wall a hand around my throat, Pounce growling deep in his throat from the bag. My gut wants to panic, but my brain squashes the feeling. "Getting kindof close, aren't we?" I wheeze around his grip, "You don't even know my name."

"I don't need to know your name. I know your type. You think they haven't tried this? Use a pretty girl to infiltrate my operation. It doesn't work, sugar." He practically snarls it and I can hear Pounce give his first warning hiss from my bag.

"No badge. No gun. Just me and my cat." I say and he eases up on the choke hold. I take the opportunity to drop the shoulder strap of my purse, which gives Pounce room to leap and use my other hand chop into his elbow, which releases his grip on my throat, forcing him backward a step. Pounce hisses again, glaring from my bag, his purple eyes narrowed in a demonic slant.

"Look," I tell him and reach into my bag and I can see Aniki reach for her gun. I pull out a business card which the captain suggested I write up for myself. On the front is my name and the words "Computer Pathology and Coding" in green letters. On the back is my number. Really simple. I smack the business card to his chest and give him a little push. "You don't want to believe me, fine. Don't really care either way. However, you find yourself considering the idea of tossing that phone out, you give me a call, cuz I could use a new one, and that one is seriously sweet." He takes another step back flabbergasted.

I close my bag and Pounce ducks inside again, and I see Aniki ease off her gun. I turn to look at her, look at the gun to let her know I saw it, "not smart, not in a building this busy" I say to her and look back at Rosto. "Like I said, let me know." And Stalk out of the lobby.

_Foolishness. On all of them just absolute foolishness, _I think to myself, slide my sunglasses on and disappear outside. "Lets go home, Pounce. I could use some tea." He meowed from my bag.

I was almost to my dorm and decided to drink my tea outside. I had stopped by the grocery store, bought sardines with the flippy top lid, stopped by a coffee shop, picked up a nice tropical blend tea. Outside on the bench, I opened the sardines, and put them in front of Pounce who dug in super-fast. I sipped my tea and I heard my phone ringing from the depths of my bag.

"Cooper," I said in response, without really looking at the number.

"I'm sorry." Said the voice on the line.

"Who is this?" I asked, and there was a pause.

"You didn't even program the number into your phone? You really were telling the truth." Says the voice and I place it immediately. Rosto.

"Oh, it's you. Decided to trash your phone, have you?" I asked, taking a sip from my tea.

"No. I called to apologize for being so rude. And thank you for returning it. Thank you." Rosto says over the phone, I pick up Pounce and have him listen with me.

"I take it you had someone check it out and make sure it hadn't been tampered with," I ask exasperatedly. There's silence on his end which can only mean I'm right. "That's the problem with the world today. A person can't be a good Samaritan without having an ulterior motive." I tell him and he chuckles on him.

"You're right. I'm still surprised how you found me from just my phone," he says, and I can hear the question and he wants me to tell him just how I did it.

"Call me clever," I say simply and Pounce stops listening and purrs in my other ear, his breath reeking of sardines.

"Clever my left nostril. You're an information hacker." He said with a chuckle.

"Who said anything about hacking?" I say, all honesty.

"Well, hacker or not, I'd like to thank you, and apologize for my deplorable behavior. I'd like you to join me for dinner, as both apology and thanks." He says sounding very distinguished.

"I'm not going to sleep with you," I say, thinking back on his earlier comments and the way he looked at me, down and up.

"Who said anything about sleeping together?" he says and I laugh, admiring the symmetry of his quick wit.

"Let me get this straight: you want to buy me dinner for returning your phone?" I ask, slightly unsure of his offer.

"Of course. Does tomorrow sound good?" he asks, and I can hear a paper shuffle. _He has a paper planner somewhere, or he's looking for something to write the note down on._

"Make it Friday, so I have time to, uh, find some information on you." I say and I hear him chuckle.

"Friday it is then. I will pick you up at 7:00 sharp." He shuffles the paper and I hear a pencil scratch. "The restaurant I'm planning to get reservations at is French, so dress nicely please."

"Why'd you agree?" I say quickly, knowing he was about to hang up.

"Come again?" he asks.

"You said it, I reek of cop. And I will look up information on you. I'm dead serious about looking for information on you. If your phone is any indicator, you like your privacy, like being un-searchable. Tomorrow night would allow you to maintain a degree of secrecy, and mystery. Why did you agree to Friday?" I say it all quickly and in one breath.

"Because, it gives me time to look you up, Miss Beka Cooper," he says, and I can imagine him sitting on a couch or something and looking at the business card with my name on it. "Do you really think I'm mysterious?" he askes.

"It also gives you time to plan a way to hurt me. Throw me in the river or something." I say, suspicious of his answer and ignoring the second part.

"Do you plan on wearing a wire at dinner?" he asks plainly.

"Very likely not." I say with a scoff.

"Then I will very likely not throw you in the river." He says with simplicity.

"You're really going to look me up?" I ask, feeling a little itch at the corner of my mind.

"Of course." He says and I can hear the smile.

"Bet?" I say carefully, rubbing Pounce behind the ears.

"Oh, this should be fun. Very well, I'll bet that I can find more information on you than you can on me. If I win, you will tell me how you figured out where I was based on one phone call."

"Deal, and if I find more about you, we'll have a second date where you can tell me more about all this nonsense and we'll do it over a pizza and ice-cream, sans cronies." I tell him, sweetness in my voice. He laughs at that.

"Very well, bet." He still laughs and I feel myself smirk in a very satisfied way. "See you Friday." He says and hangs up. I save the number into my phone under "PIPER" and look at Pounce.

"What do you think, Pounce. Should I ask dad for some info on this one?" I ask him and he gives a sneeze, and shakes his head no. "Didn't think so." I look at my phone and hit speed dial 2. "Hey Svetlana, could you redirect me to Tony, I've got a favor I wanna ask of him." And she does and I talk to Tony for a hand in this one. When I finish, I toss Pounce's sardines and grab him and my tea and go to my dorm to get my computer.

I'm tired. I'll tell the rest tomorrow.

* * *

**AN: Sorry it took so long. I was going to publish the two entries separately but then decided that the first was actually kindof short, so i put them together under one big entry (12 honking pages!!) anyway. Enjoy! Please review and let me know how i'm doing. **

**---Lady Wolf---**


	7. Chapter 7: September 4 and 5 DATE!

September 5th 2008

Friday (actually, it's so late, I imagine it's already Saturday)

Well. After talking to Rosto, on Wednesday, I went home did all the wonderful glorious stuff that we students do. Then Thursday, before class, I rushed my butt to the station house. Tony was waiting for me at the main door with a coffee in his hands. Since he doesn't drink coffee I imagined it was for me. He extended it when I reached the top of the steps.

"Told you so," he said, extending me the coffee, it smelled like vanilla bean blend. Yum. "So what can I help you with?"

"I ran into this guy while I was working a detail for Tunstall and Goodwin," I started telling him as he opened the door for me, "Thanks. Anyway, while I'm trying to get a look at Judge Walters' guest, I got thrown into this blonde man, who just so happens to be Mob-Boss Rosto Flautista. Now, I'm interested in Mr. Flautista, in that I wanna know what the heck he was doing talking to a judge, and I want to know how many pies he's got his fingers in. Catch my drift?" Tony nodded as I talked and escorted me into archives, giving Svetlana and Leticia a small wave hello. Svetlana smiled and Leticia pounded a stapler.

"So we're looking for a mob-boss?" Tony says, again opening a door and doing that thing where he sortof guides you in by placing his hand over the small of your back while not actually touching it. It doesn't bother me, mainly because, for Tony, it's such an ingrained behavior he doesn't even realize he's doing it. Tony walks over to a computer and does some typing. "Well, most of the stuff on him we had to hand over to the FBI. But we've got boxes in here somewhere, and I think there's some digital files."

"Awesome-sauce," I said with a mental fist-pound and saw Tony wasn't moving or typing. "Well, let's go see."

"Well, I'll let you peruse some of the stuff on the computer, but I'd like to know what I get out of it? I mean, the last thing I need is for IA and the FBI to wonder why I'm digging around in a mob-case." He leans against his desk looking very much a lothario. Or a gigolo.

I ponder for a minute. I dare not ask him what he would like in return for this favor because he might ask me something naughty. But right now, I don't know what he wants, so it's the only option I've got.

"What would you like to get out of it?" I asked, not sure what to do with my hands.

He stands up from his leaning position and comes to stand behind me; he puts one hand possessively on my shoulder and very firmly slides it down the bare skin of my arm. I'm in a t-shirt, so it's not too hard to see skin. He puts his mouth very close to my ear. "Let me take you to dinner. Better yet, let me cook for you. I've got a great canolli" he presses his mouth very gently to my cheek-bone.

I can see why, even though he's hornier than a dog in heat, girls fall for Tony. He knows what to say and how to say it so that women, any women, feel that flip-flop in their gut and maybe a twinge behind their knee. I mean, what woman doesn't want a good looking man to cook for her? And if you know the general shape of cannoli, you know he's not talking about the dessert being great. It's his cannoli he wants to show off. And if I was any other woman, I might just twinge and shiver and perhaps lean into the well built chest and relish in the smell of Armani perfume. It's just, I know exactly how many women he's slept with, and in my book, a slut's a slut, no matter what gender they are. And Tony, well, he's a slut. A huge slut. I don't really care how good he is. At least not right now.

"Tony," I whisper carefully, "I don't like cannoli." He tries one more very gentle kiss to my temple, but when he sees I'm not swooning for him, he turns me around with the hand on my arm. He looks down at me, and I can see his mind is calculating how much he could get away. I keep my expression neutral. He leans down and plants one on my mouth.

In all actuality, it wasn't an awful kiss. He knows how to breathe, and he certainly doesn't slobber, nor does he make you gag with his tongue. It was a nice kiss. I don't like nice kisses. There just wasn't any fire. No burning, all-consuming passion. When he steps back, he gives an exasperated sigh.

"Nothing?" he asks. I shake my head. "Damn girl, there goes my ego."

"Damn, nothing. Your ego needed a bit of deflating so it could fit through the door behind your big head." I say with a nasty chuckle.

"Well. Three kisses is more than anyone else in the lab, even if you don't like them. I'm not gonna give up, though. I think I just need to grow on you." He still has his hand on my arm and he runs it up and down one more time.

"You've had a couple years to grow on me. And you just now managed to kiss me. Mind you, if Tunstall hears about this he'll whip your ass into tomorrow, and dad might just haul you into his office and close the blinds so the rest of the squad-room doesn't see you cry." I tell him with a nonchalant tone and I see Tony blanche.

"Well, uh," he stammers and takes his hand off me, like I'm covered with slime, "Let's go find you mob boss."

And I don't think I had any more problems with Tony. He even jumped when Archie walked in to see if we were hungry. I was working on copying files into my hard-disk. When I left around 2pm for my class, I knew I'd won that bet with Rosto. After that I had my class and wrote up yesterday's entry.

Then there was today. At first I was fine, until around 5 in the afternoon, when I remembered where we were eating. He'd said fancy, French, restaurant, presumably downtown. Now, I don't know what other girls would do here, but I freaked, mainly because I don't have anything even remotely that caliber in my closet here at school and it was too late to go shopping and too late to go home and get something.

_Damn_. I thought, feeling the panic rise in my chest. What was I gonna do? I sorted through my outfits and found nothing. Sorted again. Again nothing. I couldn't ask my room-mates as they weren't home, and I doubt I'd fit in anything they owned anyway, my being so skinny, and not nearly as endowed as Olivia. What to do?

I was looking at Pounce hoping he'd morph into a black dress and heels when he jumped on my table and knocked over a picture frame. I picked it up, scolding him, when I realized the photo was of Lorine.

_Fashion emergency. Literally. Call Lorine. _I put the picture back and dialed the house.

"BEKA!" squealed Nilo over the phone, so not the person I wanted to talk to.

"Hey, Nilo. Is Lorine home?" I asked, hoping the desperation wasn't completely evident in my voice.

"LORINE!" Nilo screamed up the stairs, the speaker of the phone still near his mouth. "Beka has a fashion emergency!!"

"Hang up, Nilo," Said Lorine's voice. I hadn't even heard her pick up the receiver. Nilo hung up. "Beka, my dear sister, I've felt your soul seeking mine." She said it with all seriousness. _Dear God, spare me the dramatics._

"I have a date in a fancy French restaurant with a man who looks very good in Armani." I said, hoping the designer hinted at how glitzy this might just have to be.

"How good?" she asked. _Is that even relevant. _

"Ummm," I thought for a minute for a comparison she would be able to visualize. "How about 'The-Captain-in-Levi's good." I said, not being able to think of anything else.

"Oh my. Well. That is an emergency. I take it that, because you are calling, you did not open the box I gave you before you went off to school." She asked, and I thought back on the box. It had been a big box with this heinous bow covered in pencils and staplers. Of course I had not opened it, I was too disturbed by the bow. What had I done with that box? Pounce meowed, looking under the bed. _Right, I shoved it under the bed, with my shoes. _

"Obviously not," Lorine snorted. "Go open the box Beka, and take your long leather boots out of your shoe bag." She waited and I scrambled. I found the box quite quickly and popped the sides, practically ripping off the bow. I moved the tissue paper aside and found an expanse of silky black fabric, embroidered with silver thread and tiny tiny beads.

"Is it a dress?" I asked, crossing my fingers because I was too afraid to touch the material.

"Yes, it is a dress." Lorine said it so patiently, I almost wondered where she was. "Why didn't you open it earlier?"

"The bow scared me." I said digging into the box and pulling out the dress. Lorine had done it again: the dress was fantastic. The material was cut to emphasize the fact that I was so slim, and the material was just a little shiny. This, combined with the silver thread and beads, gave it a slightly haunting, ghostly feel. Not Halloween ghostly, but, lets say, ghost of an old southern manner house, ghostly.

"There's a silk scarf, sortof bluish-gray, in the box. That should make you modest. All you need is black heels and done." She said, and I could imagine her just sortof making that "Tadaa" motion with her hands.

"Didn't bring those with me." I said, wishing I had.

"I packed them for you. In your shoe bag. Next to the knee-high leather boots." She said, carelessly and I scrambled again. My boots were what surprised me, they were so heavy! "There's makeup and nail-polish in the left boot, and Diona's old hair-straightener in the right one. You also have some nice jewelry in the cosmetics bag." Lorine said casually.

"Suggestions?" I said, kind-of annoyed that she'd snuck it all in there, but at the same time really glad. "Quickly, before I go shower. And wipe that smug look off your face."

She squeaked and said quickly, "Straighten your hair, smoke your eyes, go with the weird purply-gray nail-polish, and wear the necklace the captain gave you for your last birthday." She paused for a second. "And leave the dress in the bathroom with you while you shower, the steam will sortof 'iron' it for you. Oh, and don't forget the watch the Captain gave you at graduation."

"I always wear that watch. Any other suggestions?" What she, and the rest of the world didn't know was that the watch was tagged with a tracking dot, accurate to within 10 feet, anywhere on the globe. He gave it to me to protect me, there's some fancy function that kicks in when I stop moving or the watch goes cold and it activates an emergency system with the police. Basically, if I don't take it off, he doesn't know where I am, though I think he could activate the dot from the outside. It's a safety precaution that I submit to, simply because it makes him worry less.

"Crap. Yes. You need a bag, but I didn't pack one for you. Ask one of your room-mates if they can lend you a small clutch in black or silver. Doesn't matter the shape." She said and then went quiet.

"Hey, Lorine." I said, realizing I'd been antsy with her.

"Yes?"

"Thanks. You're a lifesaver." I smiled and I could hear her pause. "I love you, Lorine."

"You better." She said with a laugh. "I love you, too, Beka. Go knock Mr. Armani's loafers off."

"Roger that. Ten-four. Tell Mrs. Todie I'll see you this weekend." I said grabbing everything I'd need and getting ready to hang up.

"Keep me posted," she said happily, hanging up the phone. I was about to enter the bathroom when the phone beeped with a text message. _Now what?_

"I WANA C HOW U LOOK. SEND ME PIX!" –Lorine.

I'd probably do it, but I didn't tell her. Let her be a bit surprised. Quick shower, lilac bath gel, perfume from cosmetics bag, didn't really pay attention to label, smokey shadow around the eyes, a little smudged liner (which I hate putting on, by the way), mascara which made my kindof brown colored lashes super long and a little darker. Some sort of colored lip-gloss, again, didn't pay attention, just sortof figured Lorine had gotten it right. It took me a few minutes to dry and straighten my hair, but it takes Diona like a half hour to get the straightening done cuz her hair is so curly, which I hate about her. The lucky duck. I just had to straighten the ends which made it pin straight.

I practically dived into the dress, but kept the scarf and shoes off until I had to leave. I stepped back into the living room and knocked on Olivia's door.

"Open," she said and I popped my head in. "Nice."

"Thanks. You wouldn't happen to have a black or silver clutch purse, would you?" I said, repeating what Lorine had described.

"Uh, yeah. Gimme a sec." She said and opened her closet. She looked at my outfit a couple of times and then dug around a bit more. She pulled out a black clutch that was slightly longer and sortof curved instead of square. Perfect. Even my fashion-challenged self could tell that.

"Perfect!" I said, scooting into her room. She went back to her desk and emptied the contents of the bag on her desk. Eyedrops, lipgloss, and some tissues fell out. Even a little moist-towlette in one of those aluminum foil packets.

"Hmm," she muttered, checked the back of the packet. "Yeesh. That's expired." She dumped it in the trash and went to her bedside table and pulled out …..

"Livvy, I don't think I'm gonna need that." I said, shutting the door behind me while she put the tiny foil packet with its lascivious latex contents into the side pocket of the purse.

"Hun," she said looking at me, "In that dress, you're better safe than sorry." She looked again and popped a second foil packet into the purse. "Trust me on this one, Beka. Keep that and 20 bucks in your purse. The former if you get lucky. And the latter if lucky tells you to get your own ride home." She extends the purse to me. _Drat you for being right. But I'm not getting lucky. Hell, I'll be lucky if Mr. Mob decides not to throw my carcass off the Ohio Street bridge. _

"Thanks, Olivia."

"Dish, tomorrow, and I'll consider it thanks." She said with a smile.

"I'm not getting lucky."

"No, but I wanna know his name. I don't think I've ever seen you so dressed up before." She pushed the purse at me and got back to her computer. "Have fun."

I scampered back across to my room and looked at my watch then out the window. 15 minutes to d-day. I packed the purse: zip drive, gloss, id, keys, phone, tic-tacs, and 20 bucks. Just in case. Window check—no one. 10 minutes to go. I set the digital camera on top of the dresser and posed once, twice, three times and promptly uploaded and sent pictures to Lorine's email. Shoes on, scarf on. Window check—7 minutes to go. Lights on the street but no car in view. I send Lorine a text to check her email. I check myself in the mirror and am momentarily pissed that I don't have a full length mirror. 3 minutes to go. Window check shows two boys getting into a Honda civic. Phone beeps, txt message from Lorine.

"UR A KNOCKOUT!!"

One minute to go. I pace over to the window and a black limo pulls up. That one is probably my ride. At least he got an address from his digging. I head out and toward the elevator. As I walk past, two guys on my floor stop to gape at me. I press the down-button and wait. A guy carrying laundry gets out and nearly spills the laundry bucket all over the floor. The dress is most certainly a success.

I take the elevator down and out through the common room. One more guy rubs his eyes and sortof floats after me, eyes misty. I pause at the door and check my self in the glass. _I look good,_ I tell myself, trying to really feel like the knockout Lorine says. The black dress is a tight sheaf of material that holds everywhere, delicate sweetheart neckline leads into two off-the shoulder sleeves. The dress holds tightly until about mid-thigh where it flares away just a tiny bit so I can walk. My legs look about 100 miles long, especially in the heels. All the colors, from the almost-my-eyes-colored scarf to the silver stitching, gives me the feel of some otherworldly creature.

Time check. 7:01 pm. I walk out the door and a driver exits the limo and comes around to open the door for me. I can see Rosto inside. I pause, just to inhale and clear my mind. _Dangerous,_ peeps a voice from way back in my mind, _he's so dangerous for you. _I figure that's the part of my mind that insists I be good. My ID tells my superego to shut it, _Oh he's dangerous all right. He'll turn you into a very, very, bad girl. You can just tell it from those hands. _I hoped my super-ego and my ID won't be fighting all night in my head. The driver offers his hand as a balance as I slip into the limo. I thank him when he closes the door and he gives me a smile.

If you've ever been in a limo, there's two rows of seats: one that is along the row of windows, and one that is perpendicular to it, following the trunk. Rosto was in the closest long seat to the row adjacent to the trunk. He didn't look up when I got it. I looked out the window to see where the driver had gone. From the tinted windows I could see a great number of people plastered to the common room windows, mainly guys, watching the dark black limousine.

"They're looking at you," Rosto says, noticing the direction of my glance. He's looked up from the stuff in front of him.

"Perhaps," I say, smoothing my dress and adjusting my shawl, "Limo's are exciting, no matter who is in them. I turn my eyes to him, and he gives a smile, recognizing the jab to his person. The car begins to move and I tuck one ankle behind the other and slide them to the side. Rosto's eyes catch the motion.

"Perhaps." He says, still looking at my legs. "You look absolutely lovely," an appraising grin crosses his mouth. "Stunning."

I smile graciously, as though getting the outfit together was nothing. "You did say to dress nicely," I fold my hands over my clutch like a proper lady. Remembering my manners, which were practically beaten into me by Miss Todie, I compliment his appearance as well, "You look very distinguished in that suit. Roguish, but dashing." I feel miss Todie would approve of my manners. She made sure to teach all of us basic behavior, etiquette, and also the sort of high-end rules and manners that are usually taught to debutantes. You'd never believe how many rules there are about how you can eat, dress, speak, sit, even walk, in polite company.

"Thank you, it's one of my favorites," he runs a hand fondly over a black lapel. I look the suit up and down: the shirt is a pale buttery gold color with a bold brass pinstripe in it. The brass pinstripe is picked up by the shiny bronze color of his tie, and the black suit has two buttons that are either gold, or gold colored. Either way, the metallics tie it together nicely. "Are you hungry?" He asks me, leaning back into his seat.

"Famished," I admit.

"Thirsty?" he asks, and points to the mini-bar. "Something to tide you over until we get there?"

"Thank you, but no. I don't drink spirits," I say noting the Grey Goose and Captain Morgan in the bar.

"You wouldn't have to," he says with a murmur, pouring himself abit of the vodka with what must have been tonic-water. "Your eyes seemed to be made of ghosts," he says it and looks directly into my eyes, his dark brown eyes were staring at me in way that unnerved me. Pools of glossy dark-brown, so dark it was almost black, black shadows you could get lost in, a deep still black water. "Forgive me," he says jerking his gaze away from mine, and repositioning himself back into the seat. His coat catches an inch-thick manila folder. _Aha, the bet. Well, I've seen that folder before. My social worker, my dean, and even the police have one exactly like it. Nothing new in there._ I smile to myself seeing it.

"Yes," he says lifting it up, "I brought the research with me," he hands over the folder and I flip through it quickly. There's nothing new in it. Nothing I haven't already seen. Lazy research.

"Pretty thorough," I tell him, "If a bit, bland." I put the folder down and put my purse on top of it.

"Not really. I find you fascinating. If it hadn't been for a few lucky breaks, you'd have ended up on my radar, and in my world. Besides, this gives me an easy look into your likes and dislikes." He smiles, smug that he's found so much.

"And?"

"And I see you haven't brought much with you," he grins so very wickedly, believing now I'm going to tell him all my hacking secrets. _No chance in hell, blondie. _

I open up my purse and dig out the zip drive with the information I found on him. I hand it to him. He looks at it. "Only because I didn't want to get a papercut on the 800 page file the CPD has on you. Not to mention the billions upon billions of megabytes of information the FBI has on you."

He looks at the disk. "No."

"Yes. And that's only the stuff that wasn't labeled as 'classified'" I say leaning back into my seat and looking at my nails.

"How did you…." He stammers then shuts his mouth, looking at the disk.

"Spent all day in archives. What an absolute night-mare. Tony's got his work cut out for him. I mean, there's just boxes and boxes of stuff on you and your friends. And it's all copies. The FBI won't let the CPD handle the originals for some reason or another. And Tony, poor guy, spends half his day feeding stuff into the quickie scanner so that they can have a digital copy of all that stuff. Still. I mean, it takes longer to insert videos, pictures, and just hour upon hour of tape transcripts into digital data." I wondered if I should keep listing all the stuff I found and helped Tony sort through. I opted for a different option. "Mind you, this is all non-classified information. I asked Tony if there was a way to look at the classified stuff and he called a buddy of his who works for the FBI, and the absolutely huge records of stuff the FBI has on you was so obscene it made Tony swear. He even lied, made the number smaller. Still, it's a lot. I don't know why they haven't arrested you yet?"

"Well," Rosto coughed, finally catching up with me and putting the zip-drive down, "I take it I can keep this?"

"If you want," I tell him and toss him the folder as well, "Keep that too," I tell him and he lays both down on the seat next to him.

"I see I've been bested. Pizza, movie, and ice-cream, without cronies it is." There was silence for a moment and I looked out the window. A car switched lanes when we did, following us onto the expressway ramp. It switched lanes whenever we did. On the das, visible through the glass, was a police siren, turned off, but still there. _Being tailed. Just in Case. Grr. _

"May I ask you a question?" Rosto said, taking a sip of his drink.

"You may ask me whatever you like," I said politely.

"How much did you read?"

"Everything." I said, sweetly. The FBI and the CPD are both really thorough. I know everything down to the amount of girlfriends he's had, heck, I even know what he likes on his pizza. (6 and meat-lovers special).

"And the classified material?" he asked.

"What about it?" I noticed the car again. _They really need to back off. Or at least be less obvious. I'm not wired, that much is visible because of the dress, but they don't have to make me look suspicious._

"Did you read any of the classified material?"

"Maybe yes, maybe no." I say simply and with a smile. "It is, after all, classified. I might not have the security clearance to look at it, and even if I did, I wouldn't be allowed to tell you." The truth was I'd seen some stuff that had once been classified, but it wasn't really recent. I cannot wait for the freedom of information act to go through. It gives the government agency's some sortof unified system, so the FBI knows about CPD cases, and the CPD, if they get an FBI suspect, won't be too surprised when the feds show up at their guard house, and can arrest the perp for all crimes, not just CPD crimes. But alas, that's not for another few years.

"You are truly, very skilled." Rosto said, taking a much larger drink from his glass. "I've never seen quite so extra-ordinary a hacker. Not one with such clout with the local law enforcement." The limo crossed lanes, getting ready to exit Lake shore drive (or LSD as we locals called it). I felt myself stiffen at the hacker comment.

I didn't say anything, mainly because there was nothing to really comment on. I couldn't very well say 'thank-you' at being called a hacker.

"I take it most people don't know about your skills?" Rosto asked as he reached over and put a hand on my bare knee. I ignored the hand and looked at him.

"Dad knows. Some of my friends. A few of the officers with whom I worked with." I said quietly, realizing that what I do is just as illegal as some of the stuff Rosto does. I hide it: it's my dirty little secret. "Miss Todie and my siblings only know that I'm good with computers."

"Your file says your father is a chief of police. Does he accept your hackerness?" he asks it and I can see he wants to double-check the file, but doesn't.

"It's practically why he adopted me. It's my job now." I said, noticing Rosto's eyebrow pop up, regal-looking as all heck.

"But you aren't a cop yourself," he clarified.

"Nope. No badge. No gun—though I am registered to use a firearm. No tax-cuts. I work, un-officially, with their crime lab and their criminalists and forensic techs. My work is, for now, volunteer stuff. Checking up on dead-beat dads, internet or kiddie porn, and all that other 'small crime' that doesn't get handled by the police until the last moment." I looked back at him, and saw he was surprised.

"You aren't paid? You don't officially work there. If evidence you found is ever brought up," he let the question hang.

"It's not. It's registered as either Archie's or Leon's findings. I tell them what I did, they throw in some technical jargon which throws off even the most techno-savvy judge. Simplify and it matches my report: easy to digest and no-one's the wiser." It was wrong to do, but for now it had to be done. Most of the people I nabbed were headed for the slammer, and no judge or jury was going to let them go on the technicality that I had done the work and not Archie. How would they know?

"Why not just hire you and pay you?" he asked, too interested for my liking. I imagine if I'd gotten onto his radar, I'd probably be one of the best paid and best taken care of hackers in the city, if not the country.

"They can't. I have little work history, no degree, no license as a criminalist, nothing. No credentials. My only link is that the captain's my dad. He cannot hire me when there are people with a degree looking for the same job. So, for now, he keeps Archie and Leon, and me as a 'volunteer.'"

"And you can do basically everything they do?"

"Not everything. But, enough," I couldn't explain it in detail. Mainly because, I don't know what is 'everything.'

"What about warrants? To do your job, would you need to be claimed as executor of the warrant?" I was unsurprised when Rosto threw in the legalese, I mean, clout with a judge, of course he knows legal-jargon.

"No. Technically." I said, knowing I was about to get a lot more questions.

"No?" he asked, surprised, "Define, 'technically.'"

"I'm not a cop. I'm a civilian. Civilians don't execute warrants. Cops do. Because I hack, I usually work without one. On the off occasion that I do need a police program, I run with Archie's or Leon's login and password and simply let them know what I've done" I tell him. What I don't tell him is that I often erase all evidence that I'd done anything, so no-one would know I'd even touched the computer.

Silence.

"That is illegal." He says with a laugh, sipping his drink.

"Says the mob-boss." I say boldly, and he looks at me. It's the first I've called him a mob-boss to his face. He nods, accepting the title.

"Who would know better?" he says with a smile.

"Cops are pretty up on what's illegal. So are lawyers. Sometimes more than mob-bosses." I point out and he acquiesces with a nod. We turn onto Michigan Avenue and slow because traffic is thick with cars and cabs and people. Downtown is an expensive mess of people at night.

"This restaurant is very good," he says pointing to it through the window, "Typically, French haute cuisine comes in very heavy sauces, tiny portions, and huge price tags. They don't do the sauces and tiny portions, but the price is enough to make most people squirm." He chuckled, thinking of something to himself.

"I hate to say this feet from the restaurant door, but you didn't have to do this. I would've been okay with Venetto's or the Olive Garden." I say quietly as the car makes its way to a parking strip up the street and stops. I look out the back-window and see the cop car.

"So you noticed it, too." Rosto says with a smile.

"They've been following us since my dorm," I say, feeling ice pool into my gut. _Will he get mad? _

"I feel sorry for them. Wasting gas and time to watch us drive and eat. They'll learn nothing new." Rosto tosses back the last of his vodka-tonic as the driver come around to open the door. I step out, again very careful and smooth. I step sideways to check my scarf and Rosto exits. He offers me his elbow and I slip my hand through it and we walk the half block to the restaurant door.

People pause.

It's unusual. Rosto has an air of regalness about him. Like you can tell he's important and people should want to know who he's with and what he's wearing. I half-expected to see paparazzi to come out from behind a car or shrub or something screaming, "Rosto! Rosto! Who's this!?! Who are the two of you wearing!?" But they didn't; still people wanted to slow down and watch as we passed.

We walked into the restaurant and were immediately escorted to a table with the most perfect view of the park. Millennium Park, complete with high-tech fountain, listening area, stage, and the ever unusual silver "bean" officially called 'Cloudgate.' It all twinkled with lights, people, and the reflections of the city. While Rosto spoke with a waiter about drinks, I sent Ersken a text message.

"SO FAR SO GOOD. COPS FOLLOWED US. RESTAURANT ON MAG MILE. GR8 VIEW."

No text back. I put my phone back in the bag and in my lap where I could feel it vibe is someone did call.

"And for the mademoiselle?" asked the waiter and I looked up. "What would you like to drink?"

"She'll have the same as me," Rosto said, giving me a half wink with one eye. I nodded.

"Yes. And if you could bring a bottle of sparkling water," I said, accepting the menu the waiter offered me. There were no prices on the menu which meant it was probably really expensive. The waiter still stood there.

"Would you like to order now, or after I come back?" the waiter asked.

"We can order now," Rosto said, and I felt myself panic a bit. I hadn't even read the first line of text in the menu!

Rosto ordered a shank of lamb that had stewed and simmered for several hours and some sort of salad. The waiter looked at me.

"What's the house specialty?" I asked, putting the menu down, "Everything looks so good I can't decide." That was a trick Miss Todie had taught me, 'When you don't know what to order, or don't have enough time, pretend you can't decide then go with whatever sounds good from the house.'

"Well, for the vegetarienne," he said it with an accent, "our ratatouille is unrivaled, except perhaps by the french. If you are not ze vegeterienne, we also have a beautiful coq au van, made in the traditional style, and a bouillabaisse that would make a French mama cry. And of course, escargot." I nodded, smiling as I listened. If I remembered my food network correctly, escargot is snails. Yuck. Bouillabaisse is fish-stew-pudding. Double yuck. And Coq au van is some sort of rooster dish, traditionally made with two parts wine and two parts chicken blood. Gack.

"Ratatouille" I said, deciding that a healthy serving of vegetables served in a rustic sauce would go quite nicely. The waiter nods and jots it down. He disappears. When he's gone I lean over to Rosto, "What are we drinking?"

"Watered wine," he says, pulling the napkin out of it's ring and onto his lap. I follow suit. "A lovely red from the Bordeux region."

"I'm underage, and you know that."

"Tell me you've never had any wine and I'll tell the waiter to come back with something non-alcoholic for you." He pauses and looks at me. _Very well,_ I tell him with my expression. "They don't know you're age, and the tannins in the wine are good for you. It won't kill you."

_You've had watered wine before, Beka. Even a beer or two. The captain let you try it earlier so you could know your limits. One glass of wine certainly won't kill you and if it's watered down and served with food, it'll slow the intake of the alcohol. Think back to chemistry. Most wine is 40-proof, that's 20% alcohol. One, eight ounce glass of wine contains about 1 ½ ounces of alcohol. A watered glass will have half that much. That much alcohol absorbs in the blood at a rate of about .02 per hour. That means that with two glasses of wine, your BAC should be about .04 if even that much. Alcohol removes from the body at .015 an hour, judging by sex, height, and weight. Which means that even with two glasses you should be sober by oh, let's say, 10 o'clock. Rough estimate. I think. _

"Beka?" Rosto asks, waving a hand before my eyes, "Where did you go?"

"Hmm? Sorry, my scientist brain took over," I say, hiding my behavioral flub by fixing my napkin. "Calculating the BAC of two glasses of watered wine."

"You should be sober again by 10 o'clock or so," Rosto says quietly and looks at my surprised face with a smile. Most people don't know the math or won't do the math. He continues. "Men absorb alcohol differently, even with the vodka-tonic and two glasses of wine, I should be sober just a little after you. But that doesn't matter, because you aren't driving. You're surprised?"

"Most people won't do the math, or don't know it," I stammered, still surprised.

"I did it a long time ago. I had to know exactly how much I can drink during dinner and still keep my wits about me. When I'm working, however, I don't drink. Period. Or I pretend to, putting apple juice or iced tea into a glass for white wine." He winks at me. _I've done that._

"Clever," I say, looking at him over the centerpiece. The red carnations are garish and inappropriate for the season. I look around and notice none of the other tables have red carnations. They don't match the table linens of the dining room. _Why do we have red?_ I thought, looking around again.

_Because bugs may have a red light, which would be visible amongst the white, yellow and peach colored flowers on the other tables. Buggers. _I look inside the flowers and fine the bug. It hasn't been turned on yet. Good. I break off the antennae and pull the little mic out.

"Something wrong with the flower arrangement?" he asks and I show him the microphone. Rosto frowns and waves for a waiter. "Remove these," he tells the man, "The scent is overpowering and the color is absolutely heinous for the tone of the evening."

"A different centerpiece, sir?" asks the new waiter.

"No, I like looking at my company, without obstructions in the way. Just leave the candles," he says very seriously and the man darts away with the floral arrangement. "I am sorry," he says to me. "Do you know if it was on?"

"No, they hadn't turned it on yet. They don't know your secret about the drinks." I wink at him. "Would you like me to drop my napkin to check under the table?"

"No, that won't be necessary, I've already felt under the table," he winks back and our original waiter returns with a tray of food.

"I apologize, monsieur, our decorator has no idea why the flowers were red. These appetizers are on the house," he placed the plate of appetizers down between us and disappeared again.

"I hadn't noticed the flowers," Rosto admits to me, "But I see you like your privacy as much as I do."

"It's not just that," I say, fiddling with my watch, "I like my privacy. But I'd also like it if people would trust my judgment. That mic was a purely FBI plant." I scoffed and rubbed my palms on my napkin.

"Would the CPD have used the right flowers?"

"The CPD would have trusted their agent to their job. But since it's not a job, they wouldn't have bothered." I say looking up at Rosto and he smiles genuinely at me, as though thankful for someone with sense.

"I just might keep you," Rosto says, looking quickly down at the appetizers, "Let's see what we've got here," he pulls a few of the bread and something appetizers onto his plate.

I try a little bit of everything, including what I think is caviar. Rosto eats his, but I can't swallow more than a half-bite of anything on the plate. I try not to let my obvious displeasure with the food show on my face.

"You're very polite," Rosto says carefully, picking up another crouton-caviar combo.

"The Captain's Wife," I explain, giving up on the food. "She got me when I was around ten. And although I was polite, I wasn't 'refined' enough for her. So I had to take a crash course in refinement, etiquette, and manners. I hated it, by dad promised I wouldn't have to be a debutante and said I could go to camp over the summer. So I learned." I watched as he bit into the caviar with gusto.

"How come the Captain is 'dad' but your foster mother is 'The Captain's Wife' or Miss Teodorie?" he asked, licking the very tips of his fingers. I wouldn't call him the kind of man who had a strong pout of a mouth. In fact, the lower lip was somewhere along average, and the upper was a bit thin. But his lips were pretty fascinating at that moment. They looked like they were really soft, especially with the little slick of oil from the caviar.

"Because, I had a mother," I say, and hope that it ends the discussion topic. My mom died. It sucks and it's sad, but she was and will always be my mom. The captain is the only father I know. Miss Todie is a nice lady, and clearly cares about us all, but she's more like a fussy aunt or older cousin. Not my mom.

"I apologize. Clearly you love the captain as your own father. He saved you, and he covers for you. You are inclined to return his protection with love and the devotion of a true daughter." He's quoting my reports. And he's psychoanalyzing. I hate psycho-analysis mainly because it attempts to rationalize behaviors which are generally irrational or illogical. Like love.

"Let's get something straight," I say, putting my hand down a bit forcefully on the table, "I was perfectly safe with the Librarian. Gershom Haryse didn't have to 'save' me from her. What he did was see brilliance and offered it a more advantageous place to grow." _And that sounds a bit arrogant,_ I told myself and continued, glaring at Rosto. "He gave me a chance when no one else believed a kid in the system could amount to anything. He didn't 'save' me. As for the other thing: my dad does not 'cover' for me. He expects me to be cautious, to be logical and rational and reasonable. If I'm going to do something, like hack, for example, he expects me to know how to do that and leave no evidence that I'd done so. That way, he'll never have to risk his job, his income, and the livelihood of his family—my family—to bail my ass out of trouble. He trusts me not to mess up like that. Don't psychoanalyze me, or quote my shrinks. They have no idea why I do the things I do. I love the Captain because he's the only man who was ever a father to me. That's why I call him dad. That's what matters. The deep psychological why my shrinks try to get at, is all a load of bull. The fact that I call him dad is enough." I turn my eyes out the window, and focus on the bright moving lights outside.

Silence on Rosto's end. _Good Job, Beka. You've scared the living daylights out of him. Freak that you are. _

"You are absolutely right," Rosto says quietly, "I apologize for the psycho-babble. I don't like being analyzed either." We're quiet for a moment. I take a bite of some Pâté en croute, and practically spit it out.

"This tastes like the liverwurst we used to train our Goldendoodle." I mutter and force the mouthful down and leave the bread on my plate.

"You have a goldendoodle?" he asks, trying to hold back a laugh. He's failing miserably. "Try the bruschetta." And I take the darn thing and put it on my plate.

"No. Dad has a goldendoodle. I have a cat. Remember?" I say, trying a bit of what looks like tomatoes. It's not half bad so I wolf it down.

"Makes sense. They are quiet, clean, and keep to themselves," he trails off and thinks about something. He looks at me suspiciously and checks his pocket and pulls out the zip-drive. He looks at me. "You doctored it. Not this, but your file. All the information in there is information anyone could find. In fact, I'll bet that there isn't a single bit of information on you that you haven't already cleared. You knew exactly how much was out there on you. That's cheating."

_Oh is that what's got your boxers in a twist. Hehe, I was wondering how long it might take you to figure that out. _

"Not really," I say, barely holding back a laugh at the look on his face. "Because I didn't know how much information was available on you. The bet was still good. When I looked you up the first time, there was only one page. I didn't know there'd be an 800+ page file on you."

"I'm a mob-boss. It was certainly going to be bigger than yours. You knew exactly how big your file would be. All you had to do was find one page more on me and you'd have won. Not fair." He said, the lower lip extending in a bit of a pout.

"That file is lazy searching. You could've found out more if you tried. I mean really tried." I say and he looks away, sulky, which was sexy as all get-out. "You aren't going to tell me you found that info by yourself?"

"Well, no. I have help. Buy my info didn't come from a centralized data-base. You just had to hit print." Obviously Rosto didn't like losing.

"You had help. I had to walk into a lab and dig through boxes of hard-copy evidence because I didn't have the clearance to pull the digital copies from the FBI. Do you know how much _scanning_ I had to do to fill that disk? I won, sugar, whether it was fair isn't the object up for debate. It's still pizza, no cronies, and a movie." When I see his mouth twitch, I fight the urge to smack him.

Silence. I could see him fight the smile.

"You want to have pizza, don't you?" I ask, realizing the reason he's smiling.

"I do. I just wanted to make sure you did too," he gestures for the waiter. "These appetizers are unappetizing. Bring us our dinner, please." He says and the waiter whisks the plates away mumbling apologies.

About halfway through our food, and around my second glass of the watered wine, my phone buzzed. I pulled it out of the purse and saw it had registered a text message. Dad.

"WHERE ARE YOU?"

I texted back quickly: "DINNER-DATE. EVERYTHING GOOD XCEPT THE FOOD. I'M DOWNTOWN." I hit send then put the phone back in the bag.

"Room-mate?" Rosto asked, putting his fork and knife down.

"My dad. Ersken texted earlier," I tell him, putting the bag down in my lap. "I have to check in or they get twitchy. Ersken and I have been friends forever, so whenever one of us goes out, we're each others check-in. Just to be safe. When your dad's a cop, like mine is, you know all the bad stuff that can happen just out on a regular date."

"Very smart. Both of them are just showing they care," Rosto moves his food around on his plate.

"You're phone has been oddly quiet," I comment, picking up a zucchini with my fork.

"I'm ignoring it. There are undoubtedly about 100 messages in there from Aniki and Brian telling me that you're wired, or you have explosives in your bag, or some sort of weapon-dart-blow-gun type thingy. I'll go through their messages later." He says, looking up with a wistful smile. _No one checking in because they care about him, but because they care about the business._

I open the purse and quickly show him the contents, "Keys, ID, gloss, phone, mints, and 20 bucks," I say leaving out the contents of the side pocket. "No incendiary devices here." He doesn't look in the bag, just glances at it.

"Don't forget the condom in the pocket," he says with a straight face. I know he didn't look that long, or that closely. My shock must register on my face because he says, "you thought I couldn't see it? That ring shape is a dead give-away." A smile twitches in the corner of his mouth but he manages to keep a straight face, "I though you said you wouldn't sleep with me."

"The purse belongs to my room-mate. She insisted on the latex as a precaution. Better safe than sorry. You're lucky it's my room-mates purse and not Goodwin's. She'd have stuck a revolver in there." I say, feeling my cheeks burn pink. _How the heck did he see that from just a glance in my purse! _"And I'm not sleeping with you."

"Yet," he says over his wine.

"You're that sure of yourself?" I ask, leaning back in my chair, surprised by his ego. The nerve of him. Sortof.

"I'm hard to resist," he says with a cocky smile. "Except for virgins. They tend to have nerves of steel around me. It's rather annoying, actually. You aren't a virgin are you?" he asks, very quickly and slyly, hoping to irk me into a response.

"I'm not answering that," I say, having a sip of water to clear my head. Way in the back of my own head, my ID says, _Beka's no virgin. And you, Mr. Mob-Boss, look very yummy indeed. We could have some serious fun. The kind of fun she didn't get to have with Parker Ames. Mmmmmm. _I tell my ID to zip it.

"Very well," he says and his eyes take on a gloss, as though he's thinking something really naughty as well. _Well at least your ID is as bad as mine. _

"I'm done," pushing my plate out, "I couldn't eat another bite." There's a few bites left, but I cannot for the life of me eat them. If Pounce was here, I'd give it to him. Rosto pushes his own plate forward as well, only there's not much left on his plate.

"Care for a walk?" he wipes his mouth with his napkin and puts it next to his plate. A sign to the very carefully trained waiter that Rosto is done and would like the check soon. "To help this digest. Once up and down the Mag-mile?"

"Sounds good to me," actually, it doesn't, considering high heels make for really slow walking, but that's okay because I can always take the shoes off. Rosto pays the check and refuses to let me see it and we left the restaurant. We were on the street and about to start walking when I think Rosto noticed my shoes and opted for leading me across the street to Millenium Park instead. Once past the fountain, and the Bean, we got to the expanse of grass bordered by big cement walls, which could be used as a bench. Lovely.

"Those shoes must hurt," he said, perching himself on the wall-bench.

"Actually," I tell him, sliding the shoes off, "During graduation and stuff, I learned to walk in them, to the point where they didn't hurt. Ten parties later, I could practically run in these. I'm out of practice, what with summer." I say and stand in the grass.

"You know, what you just did is a misdemeanor. Removing your clothes in a public park. Just full of illegal behavior aren't you?" He takes the shoes and puts them on the wall-bench next to him.

"Considering how high those shoes are, and that they torture my poor feet, their removal is an act of mercy. Not a misdemeanor." I squish my toes in the grass and look up to the sky and the city and lights.

Rosto picks up one shoe and runs a finger down the heel. "These should be illegal." He picks up the other one. "Apart from the fact that they inflict torture on women's feet, which is against the Geneva conventions, these spikes could be weapons." He shudders and puts them back down on the wall next to him.

"Yup," I say and relish in the grass. "Oh, Rosto, listen!" I say and run over to the wall where he's sitting. He smiles goes quiet.

"Music. It must be the last of the summer music festivals. Or perhaps a semi-public concert. What is that? Greek music?" he asks, listening a little harder, and tilting his head like a bird.

"No, not Greek. I think it's middle eastern. Could be Indian," I say and listen as well.

"Judging by those pipes, I'd agree with the former. And those drum rolls are certainly not Indian." He stands up on the wall-bench and looks over toward the stage area. "They've got a belly-dancer. Several, in fact. I think I recognize one of them, we should go over there." He says and looks down at me. The smile says he's joking.

"Get down," I tug on his suit and he comes down. "I've always thought belly-dancing was really cool. I always wanted to learn it, but decided mixed martial arts was more useful."

"Belly dancing is very useful," Rosto says seriously, and gives me a wink. "Very useful. At least to women," he says and fakes a shoulder shimmy. It looks ridiculous and I laugh out loud.

"Were you trying to do this?" I ask, and roll one shoulder so that the sleeve falls a little lower. "Or perhaps you could show me how you party in the club," I say, and give a shake of my hips trying really hard to imitate Shakira. I think I failed, miserably.

"I fully believe all women are born knowing how to belly-dance. They just need to remember how to do it," Rosto says, hopping off the bench and lifting my hand up, above my head, "bring it down," he orders and I let my hand come down, very slowly. About halfway, he stops it, and orders, "now do that shoulder roll." I indulge him, and give him a snake hands.

"Like that?" I ask, and do the same thing with the other hand.

"Beautiful. See. All women know it. It's natural." He hops back onto the bench and lets me skip through the grass, occasionally swaying on the spot to the music. I listen closely, listening for the pipes and drums. The drums are too fast and I can't move to them, but the pipe almost slinks upward, like tendrils of smoke or burning incense.

"It probably is," I tell him, leaning on the bench next to him. "Dancing that involves shoes, especially special shoes like ballet, aren't natural at all. Did you know, that ballet forces the anatomy to line up in ways which aren't organic? Especially in the foot. I spoke with a coroner once, when I was 15 or 16. She said ballet leaves structural damage on the bones, especially if you've been in toe-shoes. There's often damage to the supinary spine and stress fractures on the lower leg-bones and in the Acetabulum in the Ilium.

"Do you speak to medical examiners regularly?" he asked, passing a knuckle on my shoulder. "It would appear that, if a ballerina was in toe shoes, the majority of the damage would be in her feet."

"I do and it is. I saw the bones in an x-ray. You should see the stress fractures in the proximal and distal phalanges of the first toe. It would make you shudder. Plus that stuff is visible like, a hundred years from now, even if you only danced for a short while." I look at the knuckle that is passing over my shoulder and down my arm.

"Do you know what all those words mean? Supinary spine, distal and proximal phalanges, and what was that other word? Ilya…" he asks, and looks me in the eye, very sweet confusion playing all over his features.

"Acetabulum in the Ilium. It means your hip socket. And the phelanges just means the outer bones in the fingers and toes, followed by the metatarsals or metacarpals." I'm showing off, but the confusion in his face is sweet. "I could discuss a lot about osteology and the study of bones, mainly because I listen to or explain lectures for my dad." It's true, but I don't think Rosto cares, the look on his face is one of _keep talking, please. _

"And does your dad listen so intently?" Rosto says, and his knuckle changes to his fingertip and goes back up my arm.

"Yes, but there is different intent in his eyes," I whispered and leaned toward him and his finger traces circles in my collarbone.

"No," he whispers in my ear, "It is what we see. He sees his good daughter. Undoubtedly he sits through these lectures so he doesn't look absolutely confounded when the coroner talks to him. But I," he whispers it like it hurts him, "I see a wind sprite, with eyes like ghosts and skin like tendrils of fog. I see a creature who embodies the air. A cool wind, a warm breeze, and a fiery storm. I imagine you can see everything, touch everything, go wherever the wind takes you; you can squeeze into the tiniest crack and cool a soul enflamed," it's so poetic, so perfectly, spontaneously, poetic, I can hear myself gasp. "But, you are a spirit of the wind, and does the wind not terrify as well? Do you have the powers of the cyclone, to wreak havoc and devastation wherever you go? Because you've destroyed my sanity since the moment I laid eyes on you." His hand flattens on my neck and pulls me toward him. I'm inches from his skin, a breath from his mouth, and I feel like I'm in a play. Like I'm Juliet, and oh god if he's not Romeo I'll hurt someone.

"Perhaps," I whisper, because I know, in that moment, words really didn't matter, "I am a wind-sprite. My gift is the air gift, where there is air, there am I. Every whisper is caught by me, and only I can truly know it," I wave my hand as though casting a spell in the air by him, and he catches it, holding it, and I feel the tug of war playing between us. Enemies, lovers, friends, foes, cat and mouse, dog and cat, terrier and rat. The complexities rage between us.

Rosto, with his blonde hair, pale skin; he is light and brightness. Laughter and fun. But with those eyes and that dear low dangerous rumble, he is darkness and shadow. Not so much the absence of light, but that which hides behind the light. That shadow is mysterious, deep, and above all, wild. It is cool, unmerciless, power. He's standing so close, and I can tell he's going to kiss me. But will it be blinding and bright or dark and sultry or something else altogether. My mouth is open and I'm breathing just a little bit harder, because I want that kiss.

I can see his eyes spark and flare and then his mouth is suddenly on mine; cool and calculated. The first touch of our lips is shockingly cold, almost like he's stealing the air from my lungs. He is. The coldness makes me gasp even more so than his sneaky hands, which have tugged me so close and have yet to wrap around me. But I let him take the kiss and I fall into it. His mouth is so precise, each movement cutting through me and I fall into the darkness, feeling the snare of his mouth, like he's trying to catch me, hunt me, each movement is a fierce and rushing nip and bite, like he's trying to keep me there, lure me to him.

Just when I can't think I can fall any further into his darkness, when I feel like he's swallowed me completely, his hands move to my neck and chin, a gentle tug which pulls me upward and toward him. Like he's hungry and wants more. The mouth which is biting and cold, warms and I can taste the wine on his breath, and each pause for air is like a sip, a warm spicey sip, an although his teeth still nip at my lips, it's more like a bit into pie, than the tearing bites from earlier. If there was a color for this kiss it would be something between wine, and cider.

I grab at his lapels as the kiss changes yet a second time. This time the heat becomes unbearable and sears through me. My hands are at his waist, and at his neck, practically clutching his throat. I can't let go. I have to see this kiss through to the end. And I do, for in the end, after falling through darkness, and blood-red wine, I'm blinded by the brightness of the kiss, and I gasp again, because it is so bright, and it's like someone has stoked a fire to fever pitch. And the warmth that floods my veins isn't red, isn't even a sunny gold, but it's white bright moonlight flooding my veins and I never thought the moon could be warm but it is, and I know it is because Rosto's kiss proves it.

And just like moonlight fades, just like clouds cover and veil the moon's brilliant silvery white, Rosto's kiss loses it's intensity and his mouth detaches from mine. And I can see in his eyes, pupils wide, eyes dark as sin, the faint glitter of surprise. He wasn't expecting _this_ kiss. Maybe he'd done it to seduce me, to get me on his side, but this, _this_ was one of those moments where the feeling is just too raw, too pure, to be fake, or planned. He's breathing hard and I can tell he's processing, but like me, he's fallen into something neither of us can really explain.

"It's like falling," he whispers, this time his voice is hoarse, and the pupils are so wide, if I were a doctor I'd worry. The moonlight, and the light of the city shone on our skin and where a moment ago it was warm, it's cooling now, because our skin was warm. "If this was what it felt like, to fall away from grace," he presses a half kiss to my mouth and to each of my eyes, "I should probably thank them."

"Who?" I ask, kissing him back.

"Adam and Eve," he says, pulling back. He looks at me very intently, "I never though falling could feel so good." He shook his head, fixed his hair and his tie and readjusted my shawl. He was reining himself in. He handed me my shoes, but when my hands touched his, I saw the fire blaze behind his eyes. _Not quite done, are we?_

"That car ride is going to be agony for you, isn't it?" I ask, slipping my hand around his waist as we walk. He put one arm around my shoulders.

"Care to put me out of my misery?" he asks, pecking kisses into my hairline.

"Not just yet. Or whatever will we do on our next date?" I ask, quite playfully. Rosto's driver is drinking coffee at the edge of the park. He motions with a nod of his head toward the limo.

"Let's get you home, before the devil takes us both." He whispers and opens the door for me. We play footsie in the car, mainly him reaching over and running long expert hands up my legs to my knees, then back down to my ankles.

When he dropped me off, I practically ran to my room so I could type this up. And now I'm going to sleep, and dream of Rosto. And petal soft-lips, and clever hands, and dark eyes, and hair like gold, and if I sin in my dreams, then it's okay.

* * *

EIGHTEEN PAGES LATER.....I'M REALLY SORRY IT TOOK A WHILE TO POST. I WAS READING BLOODHOUND (THE ORIGINAL) AND PONDERING.....BUT PLEASE ENJOY!!

LADY WOLF!


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